


Sun Dog

by Ferrenbach



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Language, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology References, Phase Two (Gorillaz), Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-10-30 02:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrenbach/pseuds/Ferrenbach
Summary: While visiting a museum with Russel, who wants to attend a special exhibit on mummification, 2-D manages to find and use the one, true, honest-to-god, no one even knows how it got there magical scroll in the entire place and summons a host of gods in the real, live, poke-'em-with-a-stick flesh. Being 2-D, he summons them in young animal form.They are not impressed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Notes and Warnings:** I've always liked mythology, but tend to approach it from a philosophical standpoint, which might not be in keeping with readers' interests. Some chapters might also involved appropriately inappropriate comments in the presence of a teenager, which might also not be in keeping with readers' interests.

“Don’t touch anything.”

“But what if i’s a hands-on exhibit like all the li’l ones get?”

“D, they don’t make ‘hands-on’ exhibits for grown-ass adults.” Russel gave the comment three seconds to sink in before repeating himself. “Just don’t touch anything.” 

“I dun see what’s so great ‘bout mummies if you can’t even touch ‘em,” 2-D sulked.

“Look, they’re not going to rise up from the dead and attack,” Russel assured him. “This isn’t one of your movies. There is literally no reason on earth that you should need to put your hands on a mummy.”

2-D considered this.

“What if there’s a curse an’ they come after us?”

“I promise you, there’s no curse,” Russel told him, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s just an exhibit with some interesting information about preservation and mummification. Hell, you could have stayed home if you wanted to. You’re the one who insisted on coming.”

“I thought we’d get to touch a mummy,” 2-D told him.

“Well, I think the outing is a very good one,” Noodle interjected, cutting Russel off before he could ask 2-D what the bloody blue Hell was wrong with him. Smart of her, he supposed. “We have been working very hard and it can be good to get out and learn new things. Even if those new things involve corpses.”

“Speak for yourself, love.”

Murdoc trailed a bit behind the group in the carpark, smoking as much as he could before being forced into a public building. Russel knew Murdoc wanted no part of this venture and wondered why he bothered to come along. In all honesty, Russel could have done without him, but he supposed that Murdoc had nothing better to do. That, or Murdoc could not stand to see 2-D go on an outing he might enjoy – lack of mummy touching aside – without someone around to throw a wet blanket on the festivities at every conceivable opportunity.

Now that Russel thought about it, coming along for the sole purpose of shitting on 2-D’s good time was exactly the sort of behaviour in which Murdoc would engage. Russel secretly hoped that Murdoc would fail, or, if successful, would at least leave he and Noodle out of it.

Noodle seemed genuinely interested in the way that young people were often fascinated by dead things. It was dead things or ponies, as far as Russel could tell, and he had more use for the dead things. Unless the ponies were also dead, of course. He thought he might have a few projects on hand that could use some hooves.

Taxidermy was quite the interesting hobby if one thought it through.

Noodle, meanwhile, had opted to go for the throat.

“You are angry because you do not like where we are going, but cannot stand to be alone,” she told Murdoc. “If you decide that coming with us is the lesser of two evils, then you must live with your choice.”

“Look, Baby Buddha, if I wanted to achieve enlightenment, I’d have brought the bog whiskey with me,” Murdoc replied, his amiable banter carrying an edge.

“Maybe you should go ahead and do that next time,” Russel said, ending the fight before it could escalate. “This time, we are here for educational purposes and I’d appreciate you not getting the lot of us kicked out.”

“Well, can’t make any promises,” Murdoc said, tossing his cigarette butt onto the pavement and oiling through the door to the lift that Russel held open for Noodle and 2-D.

The high ceilings and windows of the main foyer gave the museum an air of light and space. One that would diminish as they ventured into the older parts of the building, Russel knew, but the knowledge did little to dampen his mood. He sighed in contentment. There was something deeply satisfying about intellectual pursuits, even with the circus he had in tow.

“Shit’s in the special exhibit wing,” he told the others as they perused a site map. “You’re not gonna find it with the regular stuff.”

“I was looking for the cafe,” Murdoc informed him. “Doesn’t this place have a wine bar?”

“There are sometimes wine and cheese events for exhibit openings, but no,” Russel informed him.

“Rather a waste then.”

“Look, I’m here for a specific purpose. You lot didn’t all have to follow me,” Russel said. “If you don’t share my interests, why don’t you all wander off and look at whatever. We’ll meet back here later.”

“What if I would like to go with you?” Noodle said.

“Aw, you’re always welcome,” Russel told her, ruffling her hair.

“I–I wanna see the ‘gyptian stuff,” 2-D told him, looking contrite. “They got, like, animal statues and things, even without the mummies.”

Russel debated telling 2-D that there were still mummies, just not as part of a hands-on experience, but thought better of it. The less time he spent dealing with 2-D’s vaguely necrophiliac tendencies, the happier he would be.

“Those are mostly in the regular exhibit area,” he said instead. “You don’t have to check the special wing.”

“Guess that’s settled then,” Murdoc said. “Can’t let Dents here wander off on his own. He’s apt to lock himself in storage.”

Or you’ll lock him in there yourself, Russel thought uncharitably, but forced himself to smile.

“Just stay out of my face, man. I don’t need to get tossed out of here for launching you clear into prehistory.”

“You are a man of impressive strength,” Murdoc told him, “but I doubt it’s as impressive as all that.”

“Really? ‘Cause the exhibit’s next door. I wouldn’t have to chuck you that far.”

“I think, perhaps, we should go and look at the things we would like to see,” Noodle said. “If we are all in agreement, we can meet back here in three hours. That will fill our afternoon and we will be ready to eat by then.”

“Three hours?” Murdoc scoffed. “What do you think we’ll be doing here?”

“There are many exhibits,” Noodle reminded him. “You need not stay in one all afternoon. You might prefer Classical history, or the Middle Ages.”

“Jus’ dun fondle the nudes again,” 2-D added. “At least not covered in lube. We still get calls asking when you’re gonna pay the cleaning bills.”

“You two have fun with that,” Russel said, wanting nothing to do with any possible interpretation of 2-D’s comment. “I will be in the special exhibit, learning how to preserve dead animals.”

“Lovely jubbly,” Murdoc said. “You enjoy yourself. 2-D?”

“I wanna see the dog statues.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“I used to have a dog.”

“I know, Dents,” Murdoc sighed, suddenly realizing he had set himself up for a trying afternoon.

Russel slipped away before he could be roped into their banter, Noodle hurrying along behind him.

“Are you interested in the exhibit on mummification because you think it will give you new ideas for your hobby?” Noodle said once they were well out of earshot.

Noodle tended to refer to Russel’s penchant for taxidermy obliquely and he supposed he couldn’t blame her. It was not so long ago that she had finally recovered the memories of her childhood. Although she was loathe to share much of them with the rest of the band, she had given them enough to know that she had been part of a scrapped military experiment designed to turn children into super-soldiers. She should have been scrapped along with the rest, but the head of the project had taken a shine to her and smuggled her out of Japan in a FedEx crate. The knowledge had left her with a healthy dislike of war, though not enough of one to dissuade a grim fascination with death, and a sense of discomfort about his hobbies.

Russel could not blame her on any count. Death was something everyone dealt with at some point in their lives, so the fascination was natural, especially at a time when the human brain was firming up its cognitive functions. Death enveloped war like a shroud, but it was not unreasonable to dislike the latter while maintaining an interest in the former. There were, after all, good deaths and bad deaths. A quiet death, surrounded by family, might be considered good by death’s standards. Being blown to pieces on a battlefield was not.

Russel’s hobbies occupied a grey area, taking advantage of the death of animals. Not animals he had killed himself, of course – he was against senseless killing – but corpses he received by petitioning highway cleanup crews, farms, and research institutes. This was not something Noodle found disconcerting. Nor was she bothered by the skinning, treating, and preservation of the corpses.

What bothered her most were his experiments.

As a victim of an experimental facility herself, it was only natural for her to feel some revulsion, even if the subjects were already dead and unlikely to object. He was certain his tendency to mix and match animal parts, building them into fantastic beasts did not help matters. Noodle never tried to dissuade, but would not discuss the particulars in any detail.

“It might,” Russel told Noodle to answer her question. “Even if it doesn’t or I can’t use it the same way, it’s something that held a lot of meaning to people. That makes it a good thing to learn about. Respectful-like, you know?”

“All people have different ways of honouring the dead,” Noodle said. “It is interesting and… often sad.”

Russel noted the way Noodle stepped cautiously around the topic, but did not comment. She knew of his connection to the supernatural. Knew as well of his loss of Del, his closest friend, who had, until recently, lived on within him. The wound left by Del’s removal by the Grim Reaper was still raw and sore, but he would not hold anyone accountable for his feelings on the matter, least of all Noodle. He was well aware that no one else could know how he felt and, for all the strangeness and loss she had already been through, Noodle was still too young to have a real sense of what an enduring relationship was or could be.

“Yeah, it can be,” he acknowledged instead, “but that’s just something people have to face. That’s what makes us human. If we can still feel sad for people who said goodbye to their family so long ago, it means we still have a deeper connection to the world.”

Noodle considered this.

“I once read that people, particularly English people, would grind up mummies and use them in paints and medicines,” she said.

“Well, I don’t plan to and I hope you don’t either,” Russel told her. “I’m pretty sure people in the modern age are a bit smarter than that. Not better, mind you. Just smarter. Who knows what kind of diseases you’ll get snorting corpses?” He paused and thought it over. “Better not let Murdoc into the exhibit, just in case.”

Russel’s intentions might have been purer in nature than Murdoc’s would have been, but after perusing the exhibit, he did not find it entirely suited to his interests. Nevertheless, descriptions of the methods used to preserve internal organs, the function of natron baths, and the layering of linen with charms of protection were fascinating in their own right. There were even detailed, hand-drawn diagrams of the mummification of animals, based on years of x-rays and other scans. The full purpose of these rituals were unclear – whether they were wholesale offerings, beloved members of rich households, or a little bit of both – but Russel was intrigued and thought Noodle was too. She wavered between serious thought and dark humour and Russel let her lead the tone of their conversation, replying to her in kind.

He almost missed the other voice weaving its way into their midst.

_So,_ it said. _You’re big on death, are you?_

“Nah, just preservation,” Russel replied.

“What?” Noodle said, even as Russel realized the voice had come from inside his head.

“Sorry, thinking out loud,” he told her.

Voices in his head were not unusual, but they tended to be familiar to him and not nose about his thoughts. Russel wondered if the being would continue the conversation and how he felt about the prospect, when it did.

_Overrated, in my opinion,_ it told him, _but to each their own. Would you like to know_ more _about it? Mummifcation, I mean. Or, you know, how to freshen up dead bodies a little? Complete manipulation of life and death. That sort of fun stuff._

That doesn’t happen, Russel thought in reply, although a small, niggling notion regarding Del took hold in the back of his mind.

_You’d need something of them left,_ the voice told him. _I think. It’s not really my domain, per se. You could always try it out and see…_

Oh, yeah? Russel thought. Why me?

_You seemed the sensitive sort. I guess I was right,_ the voice told him. _You’d be perfect for the job._

Job?

_Of reading a scroll. There’s one here. In the_ other _display. It can give you power over a lot of things… including life and death. You’d just need to read it._

Hieroglyphs?

_What else?_

I can’t read those, Russel said, growing suspicious. He was leery of deals with the supernatural for any number of reasons, mainly not knowing with _what_ you were making a deal in the first place.

_No,_ the voice persisted. _No one can anymore. Not even your so-called ‘experts’ can read this scroll. But_ I _can. I can tell you what it says. You just have to be present and looking at the document. The physical, the mental, and the vocal all together so to speak. Very important stuff._

Nice, Russel said. What’s in it for you?

The voice paused then, but not for long.

_A physical body,_ it said. _That’s literally it. Manifestation takes help these days and few are terribly inclined. Even fewer are sensitive enough to be called on in a pinch. You’ll get the ability to do… oh… just about anything you want. I’ll get the ability to drink beer and eat nachos. Maybe get in a good lay._

What kind of lay is a good lay? Russel said with a quick glance in Noodle’s direction.

_Not_ her, _fuck almighty,_ the voice snorted. _An entire world of fuckable people and you think I’m gonna mack on the first teenager I lay eyes on? I’ve finished off wine jugs bigger than her. Can she even rend armies?_

Well, she _was_ part of a super soldier experiment, Russel allowed.

_Really?_ the voice said, its interest obviously piqued.

No, Russel told it.

_Thought not._

I mean no, I’m not helping you, Russel clarified. Fuck off.

_What?_

You heard me. Fuck off. Make tracks. Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out. I’m not interested in making deals with the things that get into my head. You know what kind of shit goes on in there on a daily basis? It’s Hell’s wonderland. So fuck back off to wherever you came from. I don’t need your shit today.

_Do you have any idea how few sensitives get close enough to that damned scroll to help me out?_

And I’m guessing they told you the same thing, Russel said. So go. Don’t come back.

_Fine. I’ll find someone else. Asshole._

And then it was gone.

Russel knew it was gone, too. Although he had not felt the presence creeping in, there was a definite lightening of the space around him when it left.

He sighed deeply and wondered if he had missed an opportunity, but then reminded himself that, with few exceptions, the supernatural could not be trusted. Del had been different. He had known Del in life, and trusted him then. He would have been no different in death. Yet Russel would not have blamed someone else who was sensitive for ignoring Del’s requests. That person might not have known him or that he had been a living human once. There were simply too many risks involved with the supernatural, especially when it came with the promise of power for little effort.

“Are you all right?” Noodle asked him, looking concerned. “You have been standing quietly without moving for some time.”

“Sorry, baby girl,” Russel told her, giving her a pat on the back. “Got lost in thought for a bit. Places like this, they got a lot of history, you know? Lots of spirits attached to things. Most of them move on, but not all.”

“Ah,” Noodle said, feigning understanding. She knew what he was talking about, but not how it felt, and that was fine by Russel. He hoped she never would.

They wandered the exhibit a little bit longer, and then started heading back toward the main hall. They still had some time to kill and it was peaceful without 2-D and Murdoc around, but Russel could not help feeling that they should at least be nearby in case the two of them got up to something and everything went pear shaped.

Russel and Noodle had just entered the wing where 2-D and Murdoc were supposed to be when there came a loud _pop_ of displaced air and a jubilant howl.

“FREEDOOOOOOOOOOM!”

“Well, that can’t be good,” Russel said as he and Noodle broke into a run.


	2. Chapter 2

2-D liked animals.

As such, he liked the Egyptian exhibit on principle. He knew little to nothing about anything he was looking at, but any exhibit featuring animal statues and people with animal heads could not be all bad. He gathered, by reading those descriptions in a font large enough to see through the film of his hyphema, that the latter expressed the human and animal duality of gods, who typically manifested as people or animals to walk among their followers, but not both combined.

The combined forms of Egyptian gods were no doubt easier for priests who wanted to play dress-up, but 2-D thought the sight of them in real life would probably be scary. Having been to a Catholic school, he could appreciate a friendly and familiar avatar form and blamed no one for preferring to find the Virgin Mary in their taco shell over other spiritual beings. There was, after all, a reason an angel’s standard greeting was, “Do not be afraid.”

That said, if given the option, 2-D would much prefer to be visited by a dog, a bird, a cat, or even a snake. He thought the Egyptians knew what they were about, really. Communing with their gods was like communing with nature, in a way, and you could give them belly rubs to boot!

It was a ridiculous notion, one that made him feel a bit giddy with its silliness, and 2-D wanted to share it with someone, but the only person at hand was Murdoc, who skulked around the exhibit, ogling anything that could remotely be construed as sexual. 2-D thought the act a bit performative, designed to get a reaction out of other patrons rather than based on any actual arousal, but he knew he’d get a surly and decidedly _physical_ reply if he dared interrupt it. Doing so to impart important information regarding belly rubs was apt to get him killed.

2-D sighed and remained satisfied with looking over the statuary, indulging himself in fantasies of bumping into a comely patron doing the same. They could meet over a conversation about dogs and maybe repair to the cafe for a cuppa and an exchange of numbers with a promise to meet up again soon, perhaps for a drink and some petting that did _not_ involve belly rubs.

He was so absorbed in his lovely daydream that he did not notice the actual presence creeping into his vicinity until it spoke.

_So… like gods, do you?_

“Yes!” 2-D said, pleased that his fantasies might come to fruition. “Did you know some of them are dogs?”

_A human shape’s better, for my money. Having hands is… Fuck almighty, you can hear me._

“Why wouldn’t I?” 2-D said, turning to look at his new companion, only to find no one near enough to be speaking to him. “Where _are_ you?”

_Here… there… everywhere. You’re hearing me in your head. Did you not know you were sensitive?_

“Murdoc thinks it makes me cry too much,” 2-D admitted, slightly under his breath. “Girls like it though.”

_Oh,_ the voice said, sounding resigned. _You’re just an idiot._

A flash of anger galvanized 2-D and he drew himself up in righteous indignation.

“Sod off,” he growled, keeping his tone low. “I’m not stupid just ‘cause you dun explain yourself an’ think I’ll understand ever’thing you say. Maybe you can talk in my head, but I’m not a mind reader.”

_True. True,_ the voice soothed. _My apologies. I’m just a bit frustrated today. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you._

“No, you shunt’a,” 2-D sniffed.

_Especially when you might be able to help me._

“Oh?”

Alarm bells went off in a distant part of 2-D’s mind, but they were no match for his natural curiosity. He had never had anyone talk to him in his head before. Not while he was sober. That was almost as rare as receiving an apology for being called stupid. With both before him in all their splendour, he could hardly back out of the conversation. Not when other such rare occurrences might be in store for him.

_Tell me… Would you like to meet a god?_

“Oh… Um… I dunno,” 2-D admitted. “Aren’t gods a bit powerful to be wanderin’ around with the rest of us?”

_Nah. Used to do it all the time,_ the voice assured him. _I mean, they’re around all the time anyway, but to really manifest, like, in a living, physical body, it takes a little help from a priest. Or at least someone pretending to be one,_ the voice hurriedly added when 2-D opened his mouth to object. _It’s just the nature of the thing, see? You need the written words, the spoken words, and the gestures. Also sometimes effigies._

“What? Like the statues?” 2-D said, admiring a sleek, black, recumbent canine.

_Something like that, yeah,_ the voice agreed. _If you’re willing to help me, you might not need them, but it doesn’t hurt to have them around._

“That’s good,” 2-D said. “A lot of the statues are part animal an’ part human an’ if they started walkin’ around, people’d get scared. Then security’d come and Murdoc’d probably spit on ‘em, an’ then there’d be a row an’ we’d have to go bail him out again like last week after the rumble at the Cock an’ Stallion.”

_I’ll pretend I understood that if you turn right and head to where a bunch of scrollwork has been laid out._

“A’right,” 2-D said, figuring it could do no harm to have a look.

He ambled over to where a lot of scrolls full of picture writing were stretched out under glass. That is to say that the scrolls were still mostly rolled up at one or both ends with one portion exposed and pressed flat in the display case. The tag indicated that the case was airtight and under careful environmental control to preserve the papyrus.

2-D found the scrolls quite impressive, considering their age. The edges of the ancient paper were cracked and rough, but the flattened sections exposed ink that looked fresh enough to have been applied the day before. Black ink, red ink, and what 2-D supposed was gold leaf. He did not think gold ink had been in use in ancient Egypt, but he could be wrong. He often was.

And often reminded that he was.

One of the scrolls looked fresher than the others, or perhaps only better preserved. It was brighter, somehow, its glyphs slightly different from the rest. 2-D did not know how he knew this since he could not read them in any case, but he had always had an eye for patterns and there was definitely something _off_ about that one scroll compared to the others in the display.

_That’s because it’s magic._

“Pfft… Magic’s not real,” 2-D snorted, grinning. “Not magic like that anyway.”

_What would you know about what kind of magic it is?_

Not much, 2-D supposed, but said nothing.

_That’s what I figured,_ the voice told him imperiously. _That scroll is written in the language of the gods. The_ real _ language of the gods. The stuff given to humans is… simpler._

“Dun matter anyway,” 2-D sulked, feeling insulted on behalf of the entire human race. “I can’t read it. You’d better get someone else to help you.”

_No, no… It’s fine,_ the voice told him hastily. _You don’t need to be able to understand the writing._ I _can understand the writing. All you need to do is focus on the shapes of the words while I tell you what to say._

“But I can’t even see all of it,” 2-D protested. “I’s mostly rolled up.”

_Well, it might be more fun for you if you_ could _read all of it,_ the voice admitted. _This scroll has all the secrets of the universe locked away in it. If you were to read it from beginning to end you would have creator-level control over reality._

2-D considered this a moment and felt a surge of overwhelming desire. He could be the most powerful person of all! Murdoc wouldn’t be able to tell him what to do anymore for fear that he might retaliate – which he would only do with suitable justice, of course, such as removing Murdoc’s mouth completely.

He could have pizza whenever he wanted!

Of course, if he could make pizza for himself whenever he wanted, it would stand to reason that he could feed anyone who was hungry. He could help everyone in the world! He could be a hero!

Until the influx of food put the economy out of whack so that farmers and grocers and producers and the entire food industry collapsed and people could no longer pay their rent. Then they would be homeless. Of course, he could make homes, but that would put an entirely different industry out of work.

Still, if everyone had food and shelter and clothes, what did it matter? They could indulge in hobbies and play all the time. Of course, if the things they liked to do were gardening and building and making useful things, would they still be able to? Would he have rendered their hobbies useless? He could give everything some leeway, he supposed, but then he would have to be on top of things all the time. That would take all of his attention.

And he would have to give it his attention because people got sad when they had nothing meaningful to do. 2-D knew his dad liked to tinker with things and if things no longer broke, he would not know what to do with his time. On the other hand, if things broke because they were permitted to break and fixing them was little more than make-work, that would also make him sad.

2-D didn’t want people to be sad because of him! Would he be able to fix sadness? Would he even know who was sad? Maybe sadness was like a disease and curing disease would make it go away. But would he be able to cure diseases? And if he could, would people like him just ripping away parts of them without asking, even if it was sadness?

Would he even know what to do? Being able to do anything was not the same as knowing what could or should be done and he was not certain he could keep track of so many things.

The fantasy of having total control over reality began to lose its sheen.

“I dunno that it would be _fun_ exactly,” 2-D said.

_Oh, thank fuck. I thought I’d lost you,_ the voice said. _You were standing there, staring into space, for so long that I think the continents shifted._

“I was thinking, if I could make reality do what I wanted, I would make a pizza,” 2-D confided as passers-by cast him odd glances, “but then I got scared it would destroy the world.”

_That is… quite a concern._

“So I dun think I’d like control over reality.”

_That’s fine,_ the voice said. _You couldn’t have it if you wanted it anyway. Like I said, it’s only the kind of thing you could have if the whole scroll was readable, but it’s in a display case with only a small portion of the scroll exposed. Fortunately, a higher power has seen fit to leave exactly the section we need open so it can be read._

“Higher power?” 2-D mused. “Do even gods have gods?”

_Ehh… Well, there are greater and lesser gods,_ the voice admitted, _but I was thinking more of the writer._

“The what?”

_My thoughts exactly. Don’t let them know you know what they think you don’t know._

“A’right,” 2-D said, confused. “What’s the scroll do then, if I dun get to control reality?”

_Well, that section’s a summoning spell, more or less,_ the voice told him. _What you need to do is look over the scroll very carefully, a little at a time, reading from right to left and top to bottom. And by reading, I mean with your eyes. The scroll will react to your attention, so I’ll know where you’re looking and tell you what words you need to say. While you’re saying the words, I’m going to think gestures and images at you and I need you to do the gestures and focus on the images while you’re looking at the scroll and saying the words. You got that?_

“Look at the pictures on the scroll, think of other pictures in my head, do what you tell me to do, and say what you tell me to say,” 2-D summed up.

_Good enough. Do all that and, when you get to the end, a god will appear in physical form._

“Will it grant me a wish?”

_It’ll be a god, not a genie,_ the voice sighed. _They do blessings and boons. Long life, success, enemy smiting… that sort of thing. But yes! Fine! If you summon a god, you can have a boon in exchange._

“I could use something like that,” 2-D said. He could not think of any enemies at the moment, but it would be nice to know they could be smitten if needed. He thought he would prefer war-smitten over love-smitten, but was not particularly choosy.

_Let’s get at it then,_ the voice told him, a certain gleefulness creeping into its tone.

2-D paid it no mind and examined the scroll carefully. He started left, as he was accustomed, but then corrected himself and turned his eyes to the right, at the top of a column. As he focused, the ink glistened as though it had been freshly applied. With the glow came gestures, an image, and carefully enunciated words that he repeated a syllable at a time, contorting his mouth to get the precise pronunciation he wanted.

The gestures were easy enough – hand movements that did not require much thought – but the process of speaking was slow. Making an effort to keep his mind from wandering, 2-D managed to focus intently on the words, both written and spoken. The images fed to him, however, began to stray. It was all well and good to want to call a god over, and he could appreciate the desire to appear as a human with hands and opposable thumbs, but if he were honest with himself, if he were really permitted to meet a god, he would much rather see one in animal form. One or many. There were so many animals to choose from! Dogs and cats, both wild and domesticated, birds and snakes, cows and monkeys...

Or apes of a sort, he supposed.

But so many animals! It would be a menagerie! Assuming they were all housebroken. He thought they must be, if they were gods, but perhaps they would not be accustomed to modern human ways. Would most animals not have been kept outside at that time? Or at least been given the option to come and go as they pleased?

It was quite the conundrum, and it kept 2-D puzzling as he made his way laboriously through the text of the scroll.

When he reached the end, the ink stopped glistening and he waited with bated breath for something to happen. When nothing did, he became nervous and tried to prod at the part of his brain from which the voice had spoken.

“Hello?” 2-D said cautiously, but received no reply.

Annoyed and certain he had been played for a fool, 2-D was about to turn away and go find Murdoc, when a loud _pop_ nearly burst his eardrums and the exhibit erupted in a jubilant howl of

“FREEDOOOOOOOOOOM!”

followed immediately by

“Wait…”

“There you are!” 2-D crowed, looking down at his companion.

“WHY ARE YOU SO TALL?” the erstwhile, free-floating voice demanded. “WHY AM I SHORT? WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?”

“Oh, uh, well…” 2-D began, crouching down to get a better look at the creature. “You see, when you were giving me descriptions, I thought, well… That’s really nice an’ ever’thing, but I would really like to see animal gods, an’ then, well… I thought maybe you wouldn’t be used to modern humans and need some training, so young animal gods would be better, but then, well… I worried maybe if they were too young, they wouldn’t be housebroken, but if they were a bit older, then they’d be fine, ‘cause they’re gods, really, an’ be quite clever.”

“YOUNG?” the little creature bellowed.

“Like puppies!” 2-D agreed joyfully, scooping the little dog up. At least he assumed it was a dog. It was an odd-looking dog, but who was he to judge? Nor was it _so_ little, now that he thought about it. He needed both hands to hoist it up, but could cradle it well enough in one arm, his height dissuading any thought of escape.

“I AM NOT A PUPPY!” his companion yowled “AND WHAT’S WITH THE PLURAL? WHAT’S WITH THE ‘PUPPIES’ PLURAL?”

“There are all kinds of puppies,” 2-D said defensively as Russel and Noodle arrived at a run and Murdoc simply… _appeared_… from wherever he had hidden himself. “An’ kitties. An’ chickies. And… what are baby snakes?”

“SNAKES? WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?”

“We heard yelling,” Russel panted. “Is everything all— What the fuck is _that_ thing?”

“EXCUSE ME?”

“Now, Russel, a’s not very nice,” 2-D admonished. “All dogs are good dogs.”

“I AM NOT A DOG!”

“Are you sure that’s a dog?” Noodle said. “It talks.”

“NO!” the little creature bellowed, squirming.

“Yes,” 2-D said. “I think. Maybe issa fox.”

“I AM NOT A FOX!”

“We live in a zombie cesspool,” Murdoc said. “Might as well have a talking dog. Ugly little blighter anyway.”

“OH, IT IS FUCKING ON! I’M GONNA TEAR YOUR FACE OFF! PUT ME DOWN SO I CAN TEAR HIS FACE OFF! I’LL PISS IN YOUR BOOTS!”

“Feisty. I like it,” Murdoc grinned. “Does it come with a volume control?”

“You ought to be quiet,” 2-D told it cheerfully. “You’re in an exhibit.”

“I’LL EXHIBIT YOUR INTESTINES ON A PLATE!”

“You wanna muzzle that thing before we get thrown out?” Russel groused. “Where the Hell did it come from anyway?”

“MUZZLE ME? I’LL EAT YOUR BONES, ASSHOLE!”

“I read a scroll,” 2-D told him over the creature’s indignity.

“Oh,” Russel said, smirking at the creature. “It’s you. How’s that ‘finding someone else’ thing workin’ out for you?”

“Um… Toochi?” Noodle tugged at 2-D’s shirt and nodded off to the side. “We have company. Are they yours too?”

2-D looked toward a display case, from behind which several animals peeked. His eyes widened in delight.

“There _are_ more!” he crowed.

“WHAT?” the little dog-thing snapped, wriggling around in 2-D’s arms. “WHAT ‘MORE’?”

“Come over here,” 2-D told the uncertain huddle of creatures, sinking down to the floor cross-legged to greet them. “I’s a’right.”

Although his voice was not commanding, the little band reacted as though it were, taking a few hesitant steps away from their shelter before clustering in front of him as if for inspection while the dog-thing 2-D cradled in his lap tried to make its daring escape, only to be restrained by the scruff of the neck.

“NO! LET ME GO! I’LL CURSE YOU!”

“They’re so pretty!” 2-D declared, looking over the assembly.

“One of them is a cow,” Noodle informed him. “Well… a calf.”

“I’mma call her ‘Heather’,” 2-D said.

“YOU CAN’T JUST CALL GODS WHATEVER YOU WANT!”

“Gods?” Russel said, quirking an eyebrow.

“Gods?” Murdoc snorted, arms akimbo as he glanced over the menagerie.

“Gods?” Noodle wondered, thinking that England was far stranger than she had ever suspected.

“He can, actually,” said another voice that went temporarily ignored.

“She’s pretty, like heather,” 2-D said. “This one’s Andrew,” he declared, scratching the ears of a gangling, black, much more dog-like-dog-than-the-dog-held-in-his-lap dog with his free hand. “He looks like an Andrew.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ‘HE CAN’?”

“He read the scroll and manifested the physical forms,” said the voice, which appeared to be coming from a grey baboon. “He can name those forms whatever he wants.”

“THAT’S BULLSHIT!”

“Can all of you talk?” Russel said, addressing the baboon directly.

A low-pitched chorus of affirmative answers returned to him from the animals clustered before 2-D.

“Yeah! We just can’t get a word in edgewise!” hollered a voice from near the ceiling. Looking up, they all noticed a somewhat puffy bird perched on a light fixture.

“FUCK YOU! I’LL EAT YOU!” 2-D’s first companion bellowed, attempting to head butt 2-D into submission. “LEGS! THROW ME UP THERE SO I CAN EAT HIM!”

“A’s not very nice,” 2-D told it, aghast.

“PUNT ME THE FUCK UP THERE!”

“You oughten’t eat Harry.”

This gave the little creature pause and it stopped writhing around long enough to emit a noise like a barking laugh.

“UAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Harry!”

“An’ I’mma call you ‘Tom’.”

“WHAT?”

“Rheeheeheeheehee,” came a trill of laughter from above. “Tom!”

“PUNT ME!”

“Aight, this is entertaining and all,” Russel said, “but there are a bunch of security guards forming up ranks in the main hall. I think we should blow and sort this out later.”

“A’right, ever’one,” 2-D said, holding out his free arm and affecting a schoolteacher tone, “come with me.”

“You can’t carry them all,” Noodle informed him, only to have a cat passed to her. When the second followed, she added, “Um… is that one a lynx?” but took it, balking only at the third. “That one is a lion!”

“They can’t all come in the car!” Murdoc snapped.

“Later,” Russel told him. “First we get out of here. D, just drop the lion and go. They can follow you. They’ve got legs.”

“Not Addie,” 2-D informed him, releasing Tom to gather a snake up in his arms.

“Toochi! That is a cobra!”

“Yes!” 2-D agreed, standing as Addie wound herself around his arm. “She’s _beautiful_!”

“Later!” Russel stressed. “Go!”

“NO!” Tom protested as 2-D’s long reach caught him back up before he could escape. “PUT ME DOWN!”

“I dun want you to run away,” 2-D told him. “They won’t be nice to you here. Come on, Harry!”

Harry swooped down, choosing to perch on Murdoc, who seemed about to protest until he noticed he was bearing a very small, but sharp-taloned raptor, at which he nodded his approval. Heather’s hooves skidded on the tile, so Russel bent down and took her over his shoulders before leading the charge out of the exhibit. The remaining animals seemed to manage well enough and hurried after 2-D. Noodle, normally the quickest of them, brought up the rear, weighed down by nervous cats, teeth gritted against their claws as they clung to her.

They flew through the hallways, collecting curious stares and leaving a clattering confusion of guards behind them, only to spend an awkward minute or two on the lift, going nowhere, as Tom’s vocal protests turned the air blue. Then it was off to the carpark, skidding to a halt in front of their vehicle.

Not anticipating a virtual zoo, no one had thought to bring the Geep, and a row broke over who would take what seat, which animals should be stationed where, and how did one fit a cow, even a very young one, into a car in the first place?

Fortunately, the boot was quite large and, with Heather’s consent, profuse apologies from Russel, and the promise of a short ride, she was safely tucked away, accompanied by Andrew, who volunteered in a show of solidarity.

2-D and Noodle slid into the back seat with Tom, Addie, and the three cats. Russel managed to make room for the baboon in front. Murdoc slid behind the wheel, complaining of the smell of animals all the while, as Harry hopped up to perch on the headrest behind him.

“THIS IS BULLSHIT!” Tom offered unnecessarily as Addie curled herself into a comfortable collar around 2-D’s neck. “PUT ME DOWN! PUT ME DOWN RIGH— oh.”

2-D plunked Tom down on the seat between he and Noodle as the locks engaged and Murdoc peeled out of their parking space. Demands met and temporarily out of complaints, Tom endeavoured to make himself comfortable and look superior, but only succeeded in looking disgruntled.

“Let me see her,” 2-D said, holding his hands out to Noodle, who handed him a random cat, uncertain of what he wanted.

“She’s so pretty!” he cooed, cradling the apparent lynx and scratching her tufted ears.

“So you’ve said,” Tom snorted, having found a new crusade.

“I’mma call you ‘Muffy’.”

“Well, don’t manhandle her!”

“You’re jealous,” Muffy said as 2-D worked his fingers up and down her spine. “I get a massage.”

“I’m not jealous,” Tom sniffed. “It’s disrespectful.”

“Jealous.”

“I’M NOT—“

“Can it!” Russel snapped from the front seat. “Any more shouting and I’m installing a volume control module up your ass via my boot.”

“Joke’s on you. I’m not actually speaking,” Tom returned.

“Technically correct,” said the baboon. “I would call it something more akin to thought projection. We do make sounds and gestures that have meaning, but we are here in animal form, so those noises are animal-like. However, given our natures, it is possible for you to hear the meaning we put into them.”

“And this would be true for everyone?” Russel prodded.

“No, just the summoner.” The baboon paused to consider this. “And perhaps those somehow connected to him.”

“But you _do_ make sounds?”

“Oh yes. ‘Tom’ really is making a dreadful racket. He just isn’t technically _speaking_.”

“Fuck you! You’re next! I’m making a wallet out of your scrotum!” Tom snapped from the back seat.

“This one’s ‘Bess’!” 2-D declared, switching Muffy for the smallest of Noodle’s companions. Bess looked like nothing so much as a leggy kitten, but 2-D fussed over her as much as Muffy, much to Tom’s consternation.

“Interesting naming scheme,” the baboon said from Russel’s lap. “Have you thought of mine?”

“Huey,” 2-D replied without hesitation. “You look like a Huey. And she’s Sasha!” he declared, switching Bess for the last of Noodle’s companions. 

The little lion looked strangely relieved.

“That will be all of us, then,” Huey said. “All of us that came through at any rate.”

“There are more?”

“No more!” Murdoc ordered, quelling 2-D’s excitement before it could peak. “We’ve enough stow-aways as it is!”

“A lot more,” Huey assured him, “but you called forth animal aspects, and only those you happened to think of. It’s a short spell. There wasn’t time for much.”

“I’m guessing Tom got sucked through before D had a clear picture of what he was after,” Russel said.

“FUCK YOU!”

“You asked for this, so suck it up, buttercup,” Russel retorted.

“Told you not to bug the patrons,” Bess said, climbing up onto Noodle’s shoulder as Tom stood up on the seat.

“I’LL EAT YOU TOO!”

2-D snickered at that, eliciting an echo from Murdoc and a sigh from Russel.

“Eating pussy won’t solve your problem, mate,” Murdoc commented.

“Thank you,” Tom said. “Thank you kindly. Now I know the average level of intelligence I’m dealing with.”

“Look, can everyone just shut it until we get back to the studio?” Russel said. “I need a drink if we’re gonna sort this shit out and there’s no pub in town that’s gonna let a zoo inside.”

“I can think of a few,” Murdoc said. “Probably won’t let them back out though.”

Tom looked ready to comment, but Sasha kicked him in the head.

“Sorry, reflex,” she murmured sarcastically as 2-D blissfully scratched her belly.

They finished the rest of the drive without incident.


	3. Chapter 3

“Aight. What we need is a household meeting.”

Russel stood in the middle of the room and looked over the group of assorted bandmates and allegedly divine wildlife. Murdoc lounged on a chair, rolling a toothpick from one side of his mouth to another, a bottle of single malt in one hand, and a sullied glass in the other. Noodle sat rigidly and attentively on one side of the sofa, nearly quivering with the effort to pay attention to him and not attempt to stroke a random cat. 2-D sat on the other side of the sofa, wide-eyed and eager, covered in animals.

Well, covered was not the precise word for it. In spite of being a calf, Heather was far too large for a lap and lay at 2-D’s feet. Andrew sat beside her, being a fair size for a young dog, and Huey preferred to sit on the arm of the sofa. Of the others, however, Harry perched on 2-D’s head, Addie coiled around his neck, and the cats variably climbed on him and tussled on the sofa beside him, occasionally falling on Noodle, the floor, and each other. Tom was held in 2-D’s lap against his will, a fact he announced frequently and at top volume.

“You want to make it snappy, Russ?” Murdoc said, sloshing more whiskey into the glass. “I’ve a date with a rather lovely bit of stuff and need some doll-up time.”

“You ain’t got shit,” Russel told him. “What we’ve all got is a situation that needs to be dealt with. I talked to Huey while the basic accommodations were sorted out and he thinks he might have an idea of what’s gone down.”

“Quite,” Huey replied, picking grapes from a bowl balanced on the back of the sofa, “although what good it will do us remains to be seen.”

“Well, gotta start somewhere,” Russel said. “Why don’t you give us the low-down.”

Huey paused a moment as though deciphering the vocabulary, and then began.

“To start with the obvious, your friend…”

“2-D,” Russel supplied.

“Your friend, 2-D, summoned us,” Huey finished. “Not a casual act by any means. Summoning is usually reserved for priests, who have spent a lifetime communing with their god of choice. Even then, there is seldom more than one god involved.”

“So how’d the dullard get you lot?” Murdoc said.

“This summoning was not typical,” Huey told him.

“Obviously.”

“Rather than summon by his own means and knowledge, your friend used a scroll of divine origin,” Huey continued, unperturbed. “Mine, as a matter of fact. It went missing ages ago and thought lost and buried. Somehow, it ended up in your museum.”

“You’d think someone would be more concerned about a fancy magic scroll up and disappearing,” Russel said.

“Why should it matter?” Huey said, looking as nonchalant as a baboon possibly could. “Humans can’t read it. Most gods can’t even read it. With only a few exceptions, the ability ceased after a certain generation when there occurred a… disruption in the symmetry of celestial creation.”

“Hey! I don’t go around calling _your_ mom a whore,” Tom said.

“He didn’t call her a whore. He says you did it,” Sasha informed him as she accidentally deliberately kicked him. “_I_ can’t read the scroll.”

“I’ll eat your fucking foot,” Tom told her. “Who said I could read it anyway?”

“If mom could read it,” Harry mused, “you could probably read it. Could dad read it?”

“He couldn’t read a room.”

“Well, I can’t read it,” Addie informed everyone.

“I can, but I didn’t,” Andrew murmured.

“How can you read it?” Harry said, affronted. “Where do you get off…?”

“Special dispensation.”

“I can’t even read!” Bess declared and fell off the back of the sofa onto Noodle, who finally gave in to her urges and scratched Bess behind the ears until the cat flopped over her leg and purred.

“The point is,” Huey continued, ignoring the ongoing commotion, “it was impossible for 2-D to read the scroll. It was _not_ impossible for him to repeat what was read _to_ him—“

“By _someone else_,” Sasha said, batting at Tom.

“—and what was read to him was more than a summoning spell, it was a spell to create flesh and bind us to it. As it happens, the flesh he chose was not god or human, but animal,” Huey managed to finish before Tom snapped at Sasha and was summarily chastised by 2-D.

“That wan’t very nice,” he said. “You oughtn’t bite at people.”

“Well, I’m short of knives and opposable thumbs,” Tom returned, but desisted, eyeing the cats menacingly. Sasha lounged on the sofa, apparently refusing to give in to intimidation, but ceased her attacks all the same.

“I guess the next question belongs to D,” Russel said. “Why did you call a bunch of gods over and why animals?”

“Tom asked me if I wanted to see a god an’ it sounded like fun, so I said yes,” 2-D said blithely as Tom lolled bonelessly, playing dead in his lap. “I was s’pposed to think of humans, but there were statues an’ pictures ever’where and I thought they looked fair flash and it would be nice to see animal gods ‘cause they’d be soft like animals, but smart ‘cause they were gods, but then I thought they ought to maybe be l’il ones ‘cause if they were older it might be hard to learn how the world works today, but then I thought they should maybe not be quite so l’il ‘cause I din’t know if they would be housebroken, so I thought of animals that were not quite l’il, but not full grown, and ‘cause I couldn’t decide which one I wanted to think about, I thought about a lot of diff’rent ones, but only so many ‘cause there were only so many statues an’ then the spell was done.”

“Well, that clears everything up,” Murdoc said.

“D, how many times have I got to tell you that the supernatural’s not fun,” Russel said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ve already got the walking dead in the backyard—“

A whispered argument briefly interrupted Russel’s admonishment and he paused until it petered out.

“The consensus is that we aren’t related to them,” Andrew said. “Go on.”

“It’s not fun,” Russel repeated, having lost his train of thought. “You can’t just summon things. There are rules.”

“Indeed,” Huey agreed, “although the rules in this particular instance are surprisingly simple. The deal was meant to be fair: a physical body in exchange for a boon. The fact that we did not all agree to this ahead of time is what caused the confusion. The power of the scroll is what made the deal possible regardless of consent. Now each of us is contractually obliged to fulfil a request. Once we do, we are free to keep the physical body or release it. Until then, we are bound to 2-D and our duty.”

“So if you grant this twat some wishes, you can go home?” Murdoc interjected before Russel could question Huey further. “One: Where does he get off being so lucky? And two: why does no one give me wishes?”

“It isn’t quite that simple,” Huey said, fumbling with a grape. “We don’t grant wishes per se. We’re gods, not genies or other magical spirits. We have spheres of influence, not mystical powers. A boon might increase one’s luck in love or amplify one’s chances of prosperity. It won’t drop a million dollars into one’s lap.”

“Well what’s the bloody use then?” Murdoc snapped, disgusted.

“You didn’t call ‘em, so who gives a shit?” Russel told him, and then turned back to Huey. “So you don’t grant wishes, but you do grant boons. What’s stopping you from just giving D something and hightailing it out of here?”

“Well,” Huey said, “2-D created these forms. They are tied to him, at least in spirit. He has to _want_ the boon for the obligation to be fulfilled. Being coerced into naming something won’t do. And that’s where we’re running into problems…”

“How’s that?” Russel said, eying 2-D as he tried to melt into the sofa.

“I want animal friends,” 2-D murmured, scooping up a seething Tom and giving him a squeeze.

“AUGH! NO HUGGING!” Tom struggled and kicked. “PUT ME DOWN! I HAVE BODILY AUTONOMY!”

“Quite,” Huey said as Tom wriggled free, jumped to the ground, and squeezed under the sofa.

“Okay, but you’re already here,” Russel said, indicating the menagerie. “Doesn’t that qualify?”

Huey munched on a grape as he considered his answer.

“No,” he admitted, “although I can’t be certain why not. I suppose we must be animal companions for a designated length of time. However, I have no sense of what that period of time might be. I can only presume that we are to live out each animal’s average life expectancy to fulfil the contract. This is not impossible, but it is very… inconvenient.”

“D, are you sure you don’t want anything else?” Russel coaxed. “You say you want friends, but your friends are obviously uncomfortable—“

“I’m not,” Bess said, melting into Noodle’s lap.

“Okay, _some_ of them are obviously uncomfortable,” Russel amended. “There’s got to be something else they can give you so they can go free.”

Tom risked shoving his head partway out from under the sofa. “You want power? I can do power. Power… Wealth… Length of days… Or strength, usually, but you’re a bit noodly.”

“Beauty?” Heather volunteered. “For yourself and everything around you?”

“Protection from snakes!”

“And scorpions!”

“And injustices of law!”

“Command?”

“Knowledge.”

“Protection after death?”

“Visions of the future!”

“Good health. Or horrible, pestilent death to your enemies. Your choice.”

“Creative accounting.”

“Sex!”

“Drunken orgy?” Sasha prompted when this caught 2-D’s attention. “We are well beyond quota for drunken orgy patrons.”

“No,” 2-D said after a moment’s thought. “I’m very handsome an’ talented an’ have lots of girls—“

“Your pants are a desert wasteland,” Murdoc muttered. “You’d be better off with the orgies. Or wealth and power. That’s the ticket, mate.”

“No, that’s what _you_ want ‘cause you can’t get that yourself,” 2-D sniffed.

“Listen here, you jumped up little twat—“

“Smiting enemies is still on the table,” Tom volunteered from under the sofa. 

2-D sighed, scooped up Muffy, and nuzzled her fur.

“I really, _really_ want animal friends,” he said.

“Fuck’s sake,” Tom growled, risking open ground while 2-D was otherwise occupied. “Pick something or I’ll chew your legs off at the knee!”

He yelped and jumped back as a grape bounced off his muzzle and rolled across the floor.

“It’s not our place to choose,” Huey said. “If 2-D settles on a different boon, we’ll be sure to know. In the meantime, the best we can do is settle in and fulfil the contract we have.”

“And what,” Murdoc drawled, “makes you suppose you’re welcome in _my_ studio?”

Russel sighed. “Muds…”

“I don’t recall extending an invitation.”

“Mystical contracts are of utmost importance,” Huey explained. “To prevent us from fulfilling one might upset the balance of the universe. That sort of thing comes with repercussions.”

“Yeah, she’s gonna be pissed,” Sasha said.

Murdoc only glared.

“Look,” he said, “if some saucy bint wants to have it on with Murdoc Niccals…”

“And Tom’ll chew your legs off,” Bess added.

“I’ll chew your legs off!” Tom agreed.

“I’ve drop-kicked badgers bigger than you across the Thames,” Murdoc informed him.

“I’ll give you ten quid,” 2-D said.

Murdoc rolled his eyes to look at 2-D, shoulders slumped in exasperation.

“I really want animal friends,” 2-D added.

“Fine,” Murdoc said, “but you still owe me your soul.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Malarky.”

“Look, man. I don’t know what bug crawled up your ass and died, but I’m trying to listen to the news.”

Murdoc sniffed and propped one heel up on the coffee table before shaking a cigarette from the package he kept on the cushion beside him. He cocked his head to look at Russel, seated at the far end, leaning forward as he watched the evening news as though the incremental difference in distance would give him special insight into the ways of the world.

“Doesn’t sound like anyone recognized us,” Russel said, his relief evident, as the news anchor recounted strange happenings at the museum involving what appeared to be a collection of exotic pets. “It’s been a few days, so if they’re not on to us now, they’ll never be.”

“Does it matter?” Murdoc said, unimpressed. “What are they gonna do? Accuse us of walking our dogs in the museum?”

Russel gestured at him, offering an expression that Murdoc clearly read as “What the fuck, man?” but did not deign to acknowledge.

“That’s just to start,” Russel said. “Dogs aren’t allowed in the museum, dipshit. Never mind cows, lions, baboons, and a fucking cobra, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, I didn’t ask them to come,” Murdoc pointed out, gesturing with his cigarette.

“No… No, you didn’t,” Russel admitted, grabbing a bottle of beer from the coffee table and sinking back into the sofa in defeat. 

“If it’s gonna bother you so much, tag ‘em,” Murdoc said.

Russel snorted. “Yeah, I’m just gonna wander into the civic offices and ask to register a fucking cobra.” He took a swig from the bottle and then waved it forward as though confronting someone on the topic. “I mean, what the fuck, man? A fucking cobra!”

“I never suggested the city,” Murdoc told him, reaching down to grab his own bottle from off the floor. “I said ‘tag ‘em’. Legality only matters under close scrutiny and that’ll only happen to a snake if it wants to wander outside among the dead. In which case, it can damned well hide in a hole or pretend to be something less poisonous. 2-D called them out in near infancy, didn’t he? It’ll be small enough to pass. It’s the four-legged ones you have to worry about, but I know someone who can get some papers for damned near free. Tags too, if they need to wear ‘em.”

“Tags?” Russel said, disbelieving. “Like, I’m just going to walk up and put a tag on a god?”

“Assuming they’re gods.”

“They say they are. By all accounts they showed up immediately after 2-D read a damned scroll,” Russel reminded him. “And they can talk.”

“NO! PUT ME THE FUCK DOWN! FUCK YOU!”

Murdoc and Russel both looked toward the hallway from which the profanity filtered.

“Well, they scream a lot,” Murdoc allowed.

“I’m going to hedge my bets and assume gods,” Russel concluded.

They sat in silence a moment, comrades in the new hellscape of Kong Studios.

“Actually,” Russel said, “now that I think about it, the tags could work. I’d need Noodle’s help.”

“What? I’m not man enough for you?” Murdoc smirked.

“I think her aesthetic will be more appealing,” Russel replied drily. “What’s your friend charge?”

“Peanuts,” Murdoc replied, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. “If anything. He owes me. A little something for materials, maybe.”

“I’LL EAT YOUR FACE!”

“He do muzzles?” Russel said.

“If he does, you’re putting it on,” Murdoc informed him.

“I’ll buy ear plugs,” Russel decided, and then jerked his head toward the doorway.

Murdoc followed his line of sight to see one of their houseguests sniffing around. Literally sniffing, being the black-furred dog 2-D opted to name Andrew.

Andrew nuzzled his way around the edges of the room, finally trotting under the coffee table and emerging to sit on the floor between them, the tip of his nose just visible above the edge of the sofa.

“Hey,” he said, a general greeting, although one that seemed to be directed primarily at Russel.

“Hey yourself,” Russel replied.

“2-D tells me he was at the museum because he followed you to the mummy exhibit,” Andrew said. “Says you’re into preserving dead things.”

“Taxidermy,” Russel clarified.

“Same difference,” Andrew said and waited a beat before adding, “I wouldn’t mind having a look at the shop. For professional reasons. We might be able to exchange some tips.”

“I guess it’s not surprising that one of you is into that sort of thing,” Russel said. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

“Huey wants to come along.”

“Fine by me,” Russel told him. He inclined his head toward Murdoc and raised his bottle in a parting gesture. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Don’t stuff anything I couldn’t stuff,” Murdoc advised as Russel hauled himself from the comfort of the sofa and headed toward his workshop with Andrew trotting along beside him.

“Fair warning,” Andrew’s voice drifted back before vanishing into the corridor, “Huey thinks he’s a laugh riot…”

Murdoc settled in, finished his cigarette, and debated what to do next. He was not eager to move, but also not in the mood to sit around alone.

He need not have worried. The studio overflowed with personality. Most of it feline.

The three cats careened into the room, followed closely by an alarmed 2-D, cautioning them not to hurt themselves. Oblivious, they wrestled and squalled until 2-D grabbed Sasha and held her aloft.

“No! Put me down! They must be punished!” Sasha protested above the jeers from below.

“I’s not nice to fight,” 2-D admonished.

“It’s play fighting! It’s fun!” Sasha insisted. “Where’ve you been? Cats do it all the time!”

“Send her down!” Muffy demanded. “She knows what she did!”

“I’ll get her,” Bess said, latching on to 2-D’s jeans and climbing his leg like a tree. Muffy followed suit, her larger frame and heavier weight threatening to pull the jeans down over 2-D’s hips.

“Keep going,” Murdoc called, lifting his bottle in salute as 2-D squirmed, trying to keep his clothes on. He cradled Sasha to grab his waistband with one hand just as Bess reached his shirt and scurried up his back and over his sleeve to leap on top of Sasha and continue the wrestling match. Addie, disguised as a collar, suddenly reared up and hissed in annoyance.

2-D yelped and tumbled the cats onto a chair, peeling Muffy off his leg and giving her a cuddle before she wriggled out of his grip and flung herself upon Bess and Sasha, triggering a yowling cat squall that 2-D wisely left to play out as it would. Addie resettled herself around 2-D’s neck as he collapsed into Russel’s vacated seat.

“Where’ve you been?” Murdoc said, downing the last of his beer and putting the bottle aside.

“Took a walk with Noodle,” 2-D said. “Got worried the cats would get away.”

“We can find our way back,” Sasha protested, kicking Bess off the chair.

“But i’s dangerous. I’s all garbage an’ graves an’ sometimes dead things an’ such,” 2-D told her. “An’ people might hurt you for being strays.”

“Or mistake you for dinner,” Murdoc said. “Where is our esteemed bovine now?” When 2-D only looked perplexed, he added. “The cow, you stupid git.”

“Noodle said she’d help Heather look for places that have cow food,” 2-D said, absentmindedly stroking Addie’s scales. “We dun really have cow food. She dun eat, like, fish an’ chips an’ such.”

“I’ll eat fish,” Sasha announced from the chair, where she reigned supreme.

“I want fish,” Muffy agreed, clinging to the arm rest.

“Maybe I can get fish for cats when Russel does the shop,” 2-D mused. “Unless Murdoc—“

2-D’s thought screeched to a halt when Murdoc slapped him on the back of the head.

“Not on your life,” Murdoc said.

“A’s a’right. Russel goes pretty often,” 2-D said. “Maybe today even. I’ll ask ‘im. Where is he?”

“In his workshop with the black dog and the monkey,” Murdoc said.

“Oh,” 2-D said, his voice coloured with the merest hint of disappointment. “Maybe when he’s done then. If Noodle finds a place for cow food, we can get that too. What do you need Addie?”

“This place is full of mice and rats,” Addie told him. Murdoc thought he detected a hint of chill in her voice, but 2-D did not appear to notice. “I’d like a warm place to sleep though. Your body heat isn’t bad, but it’s not as nice as the sunshine.”

2-D’s fingers began to twitch and wring about themselves, occasionally tugging at his shirt in what Murdoc had come to recognize as self-reproachful worry.

“The studio dun have a lot of windows,” he apologized. “My room dun have none even. Maybe there’s one on the top floor. We can look. I’s only fair. Harry stays with Cortez a lot ‘cause Cortez has perches he can use an’ they like to hunt together. They went off when we were walking,” he added, turning to Murdoc. “Harry says Cortez says they won’t be too long.”

“Does he now?” Murdoc said, intrigued.

“Yeah,” 2-D confirmed, unaffected. “Tom says i’s ‘cause they’re both bird brains. You din’t see him, did you?”

“You don’t _see_ that little bastard, you hear him,” Murdoc said drily, “and last I heard him, he was screeching around the studio somewhere.”

“I tried to pick him up an’ he got away,” 2-D confirmed.

“Coward.”

Bess delivered this judgment even as she abandoned the fight for the chair and jumped up onto the sofa to flop onto 2-D’s leg. Taking this as a sign that the battle had changed venue, Muffy and Sasha immediately followed and began a hissing, spitting war in 2-D’s lap, a turn of events that seemed to bother him not at all. Brow furrowed in worry, but smiling, 2-D fished a squealing Bess out of the bottom of the pile and cradled her as he stroked her fur. She protested a moment, but settled in, prompting jealous cries from below.

It would all end in tears.

The thought occurred to Murdoc from nowhere, but surprised him not at all. He only had the most peripheral experience with the supernatural, and even that was suspect. While he was pleased to tell anyone and everyone that he had trucked with the devil and sold his soul for success, he was also acutely aware of his history with drinking and narcotics and would not put it past himself to have hallucinated the entire exchange.

And yet, he encountered enough low-grade supernatural activity in his own life – the undead that occasionally roamed the studio grounds being a prime example – that the deal was entirely possible. He chose to believe that it was. On days when motivation and drive were at its lowest, the knowledge that something greater was behind him, something that conducted business in a real and tangible way, kept him moving.

It was not Russel’s extensive experience with the realm of spirits by any means, but it was enough to know things existed that did not care for you beyond what you could give them in return.

Much like those that dealt with them, Murdoc thought.

2-D, had moved his attentions on to Sasha when Noodle interrupted further introspection by stepping into the room, delighting the cats not currently receiving 2-D’s attention.

“Noodle!”

“Noodle!”

“More hands!” Muffy cheered as Noodle stooped to scoop them up, scritching heads and ears where she could reach them in her crossed arms.

“I think I have found a supplier for Heather,” she said. “Perhaps you would like to come and see what they offer.”

“I’ll pass,” Murdoc told her, earning a look of teenaged scorn.

“I was speaking to 2-D,” Noodle informed him. “I know it is very difficult to believe, but not everything is about you.”

“So I’m told,” Murdoc said. “And yet, it always seems to be in the end.”

Noodle snorted in reply and Murdoc took the opportunity to cuff 2-D on the ear, interrupting the feline love-in that Sasha appeared to tolerate more than enjoy.

“Are you with her or not, bellend? Whatever she’s found, I won’t be paying for it.”

2-D rubbed his ear ruefully.

“I’m goin’. You dun have to be mean about it,” he said, allowing Sasha to wriggle out of his hold and jump to the floor.

Murdoc briefly considered giving the lion a kick, but thought better of it. While he was not an animal lover per se, animals had never treated him unkindly. Inflicting violence upon one would be pointless and unnecessary, deity or no. 

Tom excepted.

“Well, you kids have fun,” Murdoc said, standing and stretching until his back made a satisfying crack. He picked up his bottle and waved it toward the kitchen. “I’m going to grab another drink and find something more interesting to do. Such as watch paint dry. Don’t let me know if you need any help.”

Ignoring Noodle’s reproachful look, Murdoc left her and 2-D to handle things as they would.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Murder talk and the suggestion of nefarious plots afoot.

“He’s an idiot.”

“I think he’s nice.”

“He’s an idiot. He has the intelligence of cabbage.”

“But he’s nice,” Bess insisted, batting her plate away from Muffy, who sought to steal her fish. “He gives us real food and everything.”

“It’s from a _can_,” Sasha informed her, lounging around on the linoleum.

“Well, it’s not like he can go out to the water steps and catch some. He can’t even drive into town.”

“Still…”

“You’re just mad ‘cause you ate yours and I won’t let you have mine,” Bess said, propping one hind foot on Muffy’s head to shove her away.

“You’re smaller. You don’t need that much!” Muffy protested, bumping Bess away from the plate and receiving a hiss in return. A slight scuffle ensued from which Bess emerged the victor, largely because she was right. The food was her assigned portion.

Her tribute, so to speak.

“So ask him for more,” Bess said. “He’ll give you some. You know he will.”

“I don’t need to beg mortals for anything,” Sasha sniffed and looked around the kitchen, pretending to take an excessive interest in the cupboard base boards.

“Then don’t beg, just ask,” Bess said. “Or starve. I don’t care.”

“You could kill him.”

No one ever saw Tom arrive. He tended to simply show up in places he wanted to be unless, of course, he wanted to be seen arriving, in which case he arrived with all the subtlety of a parade.

Today, he simply appeared in their midst.

“You can’t have my fish,” Bess told him.

“I don’t want your fish, I want your opinion,” Tom returned. “So… death. Discuss.”

“You’re operating under the delusion that we want _your_ opinion,” Sasha said, and then added, “We can’t kill him anyway. We’re contractually obligated to give him a boon for release, no thanks to you.”

“Details. Accidents happen.”

“Was that your mother’s excuse?”

“Offside and unnecessary,” Tom said. “Come at me head-on, coward.” He paused a moment and then added, “If he were dead, it would fulfill the contract. He would have had animal companions for the rest of his life.”

“I know the logic,” Sasha said. “We just can’t do it.”

“Why would we want to?” Bess added. “It doesn’t fulfil any function. He isn’t a threat—“

“To the living _or_ the dead,” Muffy elaborated.

“—he isn’t breaking any laws,” Bess continued, “and his death won’t continue any cycles. He isn’t even blasphemous, really.”

“Just stupid,” Sasha said.

“He’s nice,” Bess insisted. “He gives us food and drink—“

“And massages,” Muffy said.

“—and massages, and tells us we’re pretty, and sings songs to us.”

“Noodle likes us better,” Sasha said.

“Noodle just has her act together.”

“She gave H-Heather a flower crown,” Sasha said, stumbling over the name her mind insisted was wrong, “and she follows us around, practically worshiping us. 2-D likes us, but likes dogs better. It’s just that A-Andrew’s been hovering around the big guy. Russel. They like dead things.”

Her gaze drifted over to Tom, narrowing in accusation.

“And you keep hiding,” she said.

“He keeps trying to cuddle,” Tom said. “Fuck that. Besides, I’m looking for a way out of this joint. You should thank me.”

“Thank you for trying to get us into trouble, you mean.”

Tom ignored this comment by scratching his ear thoughtfully. He resettled himself as though ready to continue the argument, but scurried under the table when 2-D ambled into the kitchen, disrupting the conversation.

“There you are!” 2-D said cheerfully, putting a bag on the counter and bending down to pick up Bess. She purred as he scratched her ears, and then climbed up onto his shoulder for a better view.

“Russ took me to the shops,” he told them. “I wanted to get you fresh fish, but Russ said it wouldn’t keep long enough an’ I dun want you to get sick. He said there was some that was better than cans though, in packets, so I got that. Would you like to try some?”

“Yes,” Sasha and Muffy said almost simultaneously as Bess looked down on them smugly. It was still tuna, Sasha noted as 2-D refilled her dish from a foil pouch, but the quality was much improved.

“Can I get a beer?” she said as 2-D fetched one for himself and took a pull.

“I dunno,” he said, brow furrowing. “I dun think i’s good for cats.”

“I’m a god,” she reminded him.

“A’right,” he said, “but dun tell Russ.”

“Hey! I want a beer!” Tom said, peering out from under the table as 2-D poured the contents of a green bottle into a bowl and set it on the floor. “Legs! Get me a beer!”

“I want one too!” Muffy agreed, as 2-D chuckled and went to fetch another.

“And me!” Bess told him.

Soon, all three cats were contentedly lapping from bowls while Tom hovered over his, glaring down on it with disdain.

“What’s this swill?” he demanded. “Do you keep your piss in bottles for special occasions?”

“Oh, stop bitching about everything,” Sasha told him as 2-D’s expression squinched into one of serious thought. “Beer’s not going to be the same all over.”

“This barely qualifies.”

“D, are you giving the animals beer?” Russel said, walking into the kitchen with a small bag in hand. “What the fuck, man?”

“Don’t touch my shit!” Tom snapped, and bared his teeth as Russel bent down to take the bowl away. Russel cast him a dirty look, but left the dish where it was.

“They’re gods,” 2-D remind him with all the awe and wonder of someone discussing the weather. “They can have beer.”

“Fine. No skin off my nose,” Russel snorted. “If you get ‘em killed, it’ll probably fulfil their contract anyway.”

2-D’s face crumpled with guilt and Russel quickly changed tack. True though the statement was, it was unfair to voice it when 2-D tried continually to think of something he wanted more than clever animal friends. If any wish could qualify, it would probably be the dissolution of the contract itself and freedom for those bound to it, but such desires did not seem to matter. Either freedom was not a boon their guests could grant or 2-D simply wanted animals friends that badly.

Which brought him around to his original purpose.

“The collars came in,” he said, raising the bag.

“Collars? What collars?” Tom demanded, raising his head from his bowl. Sasha kicked him, but he remained unfazed. “I’m not wearing a collar!”

“Look, we got laws,” Russel informed him as 2-D rooted through the bag and pulled out several boxes. “We can’t register you ‘cause half of you are exotic creatures and you’re… whatever the fuck you are—”

“Get bent!”

“—so we rustled up someone who could write us some fake credentials and etch us some counterfeit tags,” Russel finished, ignoring the interruption. “We’re screwed if anyone checks too close, but we’re hoping they won’t if you’ve got a tag that leads them back to us. Then we can wave the paperwork around on this end and not raise too much suspicion. Thing is, you got to be carrying the tags and you’re not doing that without a collar.”

“I’s a’right,” 2-D reassured them, pulling the first box out of the bag. “Noodle made ‘em pretty. She said you would’ve had necklaces an’ things, even in a human shape.” He poured a glittery masse into his palm and checked a circular tag bound into the middle of a web of golden links. “This one’s for Bess!”

He gently scooped the leggy cat from his shoulder and placed her on the counter so he could fix the collar in place. Narrower at the back where it was clasped, the web of fine links widened to hold the tag in its centre. It fit perfectly, neither too tight nor too loose, and did not dangle overmuch when she leaned forward. 2-D dug a smudgy pocket mirror from his jeans and held it up so she could inspect herself.

“I have jewellery!” she crowed.

“I’ll bet it’s not real gold,” Sasha returned.

“Well, it’s only gold plated,” Russel admitted, “but the plating is real gold.”

“I want to see!” Muffy complained until 2-D put Bess down on the floor. He fished out another collar of a similar design and held it up for her inspection.

“Ooo… I want it!” she said and let 2-D clasp it around her neck, finishing with a scritch around the ears.

Sasha remained sceptical until 2-D showed her the third design. Chunkier than the first two, the collar was not so much a web as a thick, flattened coil, which was better suited to roughhousing.

“Well… okay,” Sasha relented. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint Noodle, I guess.”

“Noodle’ll be happy you like them!” 2-D cheerfully replied, unmoved by Sasha’s fake reluctance. “You all look very pretty!”

Flattery might not be everything, but it helped, and the cats admired each other’s accessories a while before their attention turned to Tom.

“No,” Tom said.

“Look, man. You gotta,” Russel told him, pulling out a collar of thick links. “If you get out of here and someone picks you up, they’re not gonna treat you right.”

“Fuck them and fuck you.”

“I’m just sayin’. It’s better you get sent back here,” Russel insisted. “If you get sent to the shelter, there’s no telling what’ll happen and, unless you were talking out of your ass, no one’s gonna to be able to understand you if they aren’t related to 2-D in some way. There’s no point in kicking up a fuss.”

“I’m not wearing that collar.”

Russel had expected shouting and ranting. Tom had done nothing but spit venom at top volume since 2-D had called him out of whatever pit was reserved for screaming dog-things. Tom’s vociferous vitriol for everything Kong Studios had to offer had become such a part of the background noise that the very quiet and precise delivery of his declaration stunned Russel into a moment of silence. The statement carried a cold, dead weight that no amount of shouting could equal and it sucked all other sounds out of the immediate environment.

It was then Russel noticed that the cats had vanished, swiftly and silently, like woodland creatures moments before disaster.

Russel met Tom’s eyes and held his gaze, unnerving though it was, while he considered his options. He could come clean, he supposed, the links of the collar slick as his palms began to sweat. He could reason further, although he doubted that would make much of a difference. He could—

“Got you!”

The kitchen erupted into shrieking chaos as 2-D, forgotten in the showdown of wills, trapped Tom in a cage of his own body and looped a gold collar around the creature’s neck, clasping it firmly just as Tom managed to wriggle free and skitter away across the floor to glare at them from behind a forest of furniture legs.

“Uh, yeah,” Russel admitted, catching Tom’s eye and holding up the chain of gold links before putting it back in the bag. “Distraction. This one’s Andrew’s. Aw, shit,” he continued when he noticed 2-D inspecting his arm. “Are you gonna need a shot for that?”

“I dun think so. I dun think gods get rabies,” 2-D replied.

He wandered over to the sink and washed the blood from his arm to better inspect his wounds.

“See,” he said, showing Russel the bite mark. “I’s not deep. He’s only got l’il teeth. I’s like a scratch.”

“I dunno, man. You’re supposed to be connected to them somehow. They shouldn’t be able to hurt you…”

“You’d bite too, if someone jumped on you,” 2-D sniffed, and then reconsidered. “Well, you might punch ‘em, really. Not so much with the biting. But animals bite. They can’t do anything else.”

“D—“

“I’s fine,” 2-D insisted in a tone as cold and malevolent as Tom’s.

Russel glanced around the kitchen, but Tom had vanished from beneath the table, off to lick the wounds of his affront.

“Okay, if you say so,” Russel told 2-D. “But put a plaster or something on it so it doesn’t get infected. And I want to keep an eye on it. If it starts to look weird, I’m taking you to a doctor.”

“I’s a'right,” 2-D said. “I know it is. I wouldn’t’ve been bit if I hadn’t jumped on him. I’s scary, bein’ jumped on. Tom’s a good dog.”

“He’s a vicious little bastard,” Russel replied.

“He’s a good dog,” 2-D repeated coldly, implacably. “All dogs are good dogs.”

“If you say so,” Russel said, eying him warily. “Just keep an eye on that bite.”

And with that, he left to finish the deliveries.


	6. Chapter 6

“Natron mostly. But it’s a drying agent. Probably not what you’re going for.”

“Probably not,” Russel agreed. “Would be Hell for stitching.”

“Well, you could always stitch first and dry later, but the shrinkage would wreak merry havoc on the lifelike effect you seem to be going for.”

Russel contemplated this. His experience with the supernatural had invested him with a healthy disconnect of the spirit from the body. When the spirit departed, what remained was a shell. That did not mean he did not harbour respect for those shells, of course. Human bodies were invested with the spirits of those who loved them in life and it would be cruel to make loved ones witness any form of desecration meted upon them. 

However, animals did not have the same concerns as humans. Russel would not want push that theory by performing his experiments in the vicinity of other animals of the same species, but he did not feel his creations injured the spirits of the animals in any way. They carried with them an infusion of the animals’ nature, coupled with the vitality given them by his perceptions of them and the perceptions of those with whom he shared his work. In his opinion, giving the attributes of one animal to another that might have otherwise lived without them celebrated and honoured the essence of each.

Wheels and exhaust systems were a bonus.

Andrew was a valuable source of information, increasing Russel’s taxidermy skill more than he might have hoped, but not all of the information could be applied to his particular approach. That said, Andrew appeared to be on board with the spirit of the thing, joining Russel in his philosophies of symbolism and spirit and assuring him that many underworld creatures were, in fact, hybrids of one sort or another, the combination of their features granting them powers and influences they would have no other way.

“What do you think of the wheels?” Russel said.

Andrew raised a hind leg to scratch his ear in contemplation.

“Honestly?” he said. “Beyond my sphere. Most of my prime activity was during a period where wheels belonged to carts and chariots and each served a distinct purpose. They weren’t exactly general utility, especially if you were looking at off-roading. These days, I can see the appeal. Particularly for someone of your mechanical skill. With the right structure and wheels, you can adapt for just about any eventuality, whether you’re looking strictly for speed or aiming for manoeuvrability. Do you need treads that deep?”

“Well, this pig’s well suited to colder climates,” Russel explained. “You don’t want him to get stuck outside of his home turf.”

“You could leave the front legs unaffected if you aren’t afraid to sacrifice speed for steadiness,” Huey volunteered. “Or do you fear that would make it too tired?”

Russel groaned inwardly at the pun and tried not to react. Huey had a tendency toward wordplay that held all the humourous buoyancy of a lead balloon. Russel had tried to go along with it at first, acknowledging his attempts with a mild chuckle, but the warning looks and rolled eyes from Andrew cemented what he had begun to suspect: that any show of appreciation would only encouraged the puns.

Since then, Russel had endeavoured to become the most humourless human on the planet and he highly suspected that Andrew secretly blessed the fact that his canine features were easy to school. If Huey hadn’t been able to buy his place with a wealth of information on various topics, Russel might have shooed him off to bother 2-D.

Although, given the terms of 2-D's “contract” with them, Russel faintly wondered why Andrew and Huey did not opt to be with him anyway.

“I used to have a sense of humour, but you slaughtered it,” Andrew informed Huey. “Sliced and diced so fine, even I can’t do anything with it.”

“An impressive boast,” Huey returned, unperturbed. “It’s good to know my ultimate plans have come to fruition.”

“Despite what anyone else might tell you, I’m the sane one,” Andrew told Russel, speaking from the side of his mouth in mock confidentiality. Russel was not sure how he managed it.

“Russ?”

Russel looked up to see 2-D hovering around the doorway. Although he did not have Noodle’s conflicting interest in taxidermy, 2-D tended to avoid coming into the workshop without an invitation. There were too many small bits of things that he worried he might unintentionally break or lose and somewhere between albums he had developed a fascination with small knives. Russel had been forced to chastise him on more than one occasional when an interesting or oddly shaped blade had gone missing, and this, too, contributed to his reluctance.

“Noodle wants some help,” 2-D explained when Russel looked up at him. “I said I’d help her but she says she needs you ‘cause only you can do what she needs, but she won’t say what it is ‘cause she said you’d know.”

“Can’t say I do, but I got an idea,” Russel said, stepping away from his work. When Noodle asked for him specifically, it was because explaining to 2-D would take too long and Murdoc would just say no. “You can hang out if you want, but don’t play with anything.”

“I won’t,” 2-D assured him. He hovered around the doorway a bit after Russel left, inching his way inside once he realized that nothing would spontaneously combust in his presence. He craned his neck to goggle at everything with unbridled curiosity, culminating with the objects on the workbench.

“I don’t think he meant you need to strain yourself to have a look,” Andrew said as 2-D eased up onto his toes to bend over Russel’s latest project.

“I guess,” 2-D replied, wrinkling his nose in distaste and focusing instead on Russel’s tools, “but Russel dun like me playin’ with his things. He says it’s ‘cause they’re sharp, but he dun like it when people touch stuff that’s his an’ not sharp either, so I guess he just dun like people touchin’ his stuff. I’s like your things, you know. I dun like people touching mine much either, except sometimes I dun mind. It depends. I got knives an’ things too. Flick knives, you know. I collect ‘em an’ they can be pretty sharp an’ maybe i’s not good to have too many people playin’ with ‘em…”

He trailed off when it seemed Andrew’s attention had drifted to the need to scratch his ear.

“That’s very reasonable,” Huey said after an extended silence in which 2-D supposed his disappointment in Andrew’s disinterest was apparent. “And very responsible, not keeping sharp knives in reach of just anyone.”

“Thank you,” 2-D replied, careful to be polite, although there was something condescending about Huey’s tone. He thought Huey must be very smart, reading all the books he could come across in the studio cover to cover, from technical manuals to outright pornography, and actively seeking out Noodle’s books on philosophy. 2-D liked to read himself, sometimes, when it didn’t give him eye strain, even with the glasses he had just for that, but he certainly couldn’t read as quickly as Huey, or even Noodle, and he didn’t think he retained half as much information. This didn’t normally bother him because it meant he could read the same book over and over without getting bored until he finally absorbed everything he thought he would, but sometimes… sometimes people used a tone that suggested they were humouring him just because they were able to know more than he much faster than he, and hearing it come from a baboon did nothing to reassure or uplift him.

That Huey was technically a god – or at least claimed to be – mattered not at all.

“If you know what a fucking knife is, I don’t see the problem. Just pick it up and look at it if you want to see it so badly.”

Andrew and Huey both sighed – as far as animals _could_ sigh – and Andrew ducked his head down below the edge of his seat to watch Tom wriggle his way out of wherever he had stashed himself.

“Where did you even come from?” Andrew said, his voice tinged with horrified exasperation.

“Someplace that hasn’t seen a vacuum cleaner since you last got laid,” Tom informed him and shook himself off, bits of lint scattering around him as the heavy links of his collar rattled.

“Why are you always needlessly inappropriate?” Andrew sniffed as Tom tried to leap up onto his seat.

“Because someone has to be and I got elected,” Tom managed before Andrew gave him a shove and knocked him back to the ground. “Ow. Look, fuckhole, you can let me up or I can beat the shit out of you.”

“Or you can fuck off.”

“You might as well let him,” Huey said. “If he does anything to Russel’s project, Russel will educate him on the finer techniques of American football.”

“Just say he’s going to kick me, Poindexter,” Tom said, making a second leap for Andrew’s seat and succeeding by the grace of luck and bared teeth. Then he scrambled up onto the work bench. “Well, that pig’s seen better days.”

“You oughtn’t play with Russel’s things,” 2-D told him. “I’s not very nice.”

“I’m just looking,” Tom said, and prodded one of the wheels attached to the pig’s back legs. It spun lazily in the air.

“I said dun touch ‘em!”

The sharpness of his tone startled even 2-D. He had been picking at his fingers in his anxiety – a terrible habit he could not seem to break – but now his hands were curled into fists. Lightly, not raised or ready to fight, but fists nonetheless. He wasn’t sure what he would do if a god – alleged god – wanted to disobey him, but casual disregard for the property of his bandmates incensed him.

Tom glared at him with caged fury that cooled as suddenly as it had ignited.

“You need to relax,” he said. “I’m not hurting anything. I just want to see.” He jabbed a paw at one curved blade, close enough for it to be obvious that he was very deliberately not touching it. “You’re the knife collector… What’s this thing?”

“I dunno. I dun stuff animals,” 2-D told him, and then considered. “I think i’s to scrape skin. I think I seen one in a movie.”

“This one?”

“Dunno. I’s got prickly bits.”

“This one?”

“Just a knife.” 2-D leaned in closer to have a look. “Bowie, I think, ‘cause i’s got the curved bit and the cross-bit on the handle. Dunno what Russ does with it though.”

“What the Hell is going on?”

2-D flinched, and then Russel watched the tension melt from his body when he realized who had entered the room.

“Nothing,” 2-D said. Russel watched Tom slink behind 2-D, breaking his line of sight. “We were just lookin’ at your tools. I din’t touch ‘em.”

“He didn’t touch them,” Andrew agreed.

“This is true,” Huey added.

“Okay, I trust you,” Russel said, although he eyed the group suspiciously, leaning over ever so slightly to see if he could catch sight of Tom. “I just don’t want you to cut yourself.”

“I know what knives are,” 2-D huffed. A justified annoyance, Russel supposed, but one that did not change his stance in the least. “I got some myself. Like this one, see?”

2-D reached into his back pocket and pulled out one of his switchblades, holding it up for inspection. Russel was not adept enough to identify the type simply by looking at the handle, but 2-D wasted no time in elaborating.

“This one’s out-the-front. I can put my fingers right around it and not get hurt at all,” he said, holding up the knife as he clutched it and popped the button. The blade shot directly out of the tip, not too long, but sharpened on both sides.

“Fuck, D!” Russel exclaimed, rearing back. “You’re gonna take someone’s damned eye out with that thing!”

“I’s just a small one,” 2-D protested. “An’ i’s automatic, so it dun come out that fast.”

As if to prove his point, he popped the button a second time, retracting the blade.

“It doesn’t have to come out fast or be very long to hurt someone,” Russel reminded him and then sighed. “Look, man. I know you’re good with your collection, but my stuff’s different. I clean it after every use, but that doesn’t change the fact that I use it on dead things. No telling what kind of germs are on it. Even I won’t use my tools without heavy gloves. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone getting sick.”

“I know,” 2-D said. “I wouldn’t touch your things anyway just ‘cause they’re yours. I just want you to know that I know how to use a knife.”

“I know,” Russel told him. “Just like I know you didn’t mean for that to be as creepy as it sounded. Noodle’s gonna take orders for delivery, by the way. If you know what you want, you can hang here until she comes around, otherwise you might want to go look over some menus.”

“I better go look,” 2-D said in spite of ordering some variation of breaded fish or chicken fillets and chips with alarming regularity.

“Okay, you do that,” Russel said as 2-D ambled past him and out of the room. Without 2-D’s body blocking his view, Russel was surprised to find that Tom was nowhere to be found.

“You just let him carry weapons around like that?” Andrew said.

“D’s all right,” Russel told him. “He likes the knives ‘cause he likes playing with the mechanisms on them. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Wasn’t dipshit here a second ago?”

“Go fuck yourself!” Tom responded from somewhere under the workbench.

“Yeah, he kinda comes and goes,” Andrew said. “You get used to it.”

“He has a tendency to be where you least want him,” Huey agreed.

“Like glitter,” Russel said. He still occasionally found shiny particles stuck to his clothing from crafts Noodle made when she was as young as eight. “Or herpes.”

“Hardy har.”

Tom stuck his head out from under the workbench and eyed Russel with cool analysis.

“You take him too lightly,” he said.

“Who? D?” Russel scoffed. “Look, he’s a nice guy. He’s no intellectual powerhouse, but he knows what he needs to know and maybe a few things he doesn’t, like intimate details about the springs in flick knives. That doesn’t mean he’d use ‘em. He just gets… really hooked on things sometimes. But I wasn’t kidding about his not hurting a fly. I’ve seen him with flies. He adopts them and gives them names.”

“What if he decided that one of the things he was really hooked on needed to be defended?”

Russel paused, uncertain of where the conversation was headed and unwilling to admit that this was not a scenario he had given much thought.

“D’s a nice guy,” he repeated firmly, hoping to end the conversation.

It must have worked to some extent because Tom only looked up at him for several seconds before cocking his head in the closest thing he had to a shrug.

“Illusions are nice, but mirages kill,” he said and vanished under the workbench.

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Russel said, squatting down to confront Tom, only to find the space empty. “The Hell did he go?”

“Hopefully somewhere full of lint,” Andrew said.


	7. Chapter 7

“That sounds beautiful.”

“Well, you helped,” Noodle said, looking up from her guitar to meet Heather’s large, soulful eyes. If anyone had told her she would one day be entertaining a young cow on a large, flumpy cushion in her room at Kong Studios, she would have scoffed and restrained them for their own safety and the safety of others.

“I did not,” Heather demurred. “The talent is all yours.”

“Maybe,” Noodle allowed, “but I feel you have been… uniquely inspiring. I thought these songs were quite good before, but when I play them for you, I see all the ways in which they can be made even better.”

“It’s in the job description,” Heather said, “but it only proves your talent. You can see beauty because you desire beauty and that allows you to have special insight.”

Noodle thought on this, unsure how she should approach it. She knew there was something about Heather’s presence that calmed her and made her see and hear things in her music that she never had before, but she could not grasp how it worked. In spite of her alleged status as a deity, Heather did not appear to grant power in any significant way – indeed, if she were to grant power, it would be to 2-D upon his request – but the power was there nonetheless.

“I still feel you are helping me,” Noodle told her. “I feel you are giving me some kind of… special knowledge perhaps.”

“That isn’t quite how it works,” Heather said, “although that doesn’t mean you’re wrong. What we are, well… We aren’t magical creatures. We don’t grant wishes. We are the culmination of concept and human thought—“

Heather’s explanation halted as the cats tore into the room in an elaborate game of chase. Out of all the unusual houseguests, Noodle felt they were the least affected by the fact that they were trapped in the bodies of animals.

Granted, if _she_ had been trapped in the body of cat, she doubted she would be in a hurry to give it up. It seemed a blessed existence, full of high-speed chases, tuna sachets, and fourteen-hour naps.

Bess yowled kitten noises of protest as she scrambled up the back of Noodle’s shirt and clung to her shoulder.

“Noodle! Help!” she cried. “I’m being bullied.”

“Liar!”

“She lies!”

“Send her down!”

“Drop her to her doom!”

“We are having a music session,” Noodle told them primly. “If you want to sit in, you will have to be quiet. Besides, you might wake Addie.”

Addie, curled on the window ledge to take full advantage of the sun’s warmth, lifted her head to scan the room.

“I’m up,” she said, “but a little less screeching would be appreciated.”

“Ugh,” Sasha complained, making the leap onto Noodle’s bed to flop down beside her. “All you do is sleep. Don’t you have, like, mice to catch or something?”

“Rich, coming from someone who’s out cold most of the day.”

“I’m not. You’re mistaking me for M-Muffy.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” Muffy protested, flopping down on Noodle’s other side.

“You’re just jealous because I have the best sun ledge,” Addie said, lowering her head once again.

Sasha chuffed dismissively, but a thread of anxiety wormed its way into Noodle’s heart. Addie bantered with the others, but often sounded sad. She had ridden coiled around 2-D’s shoulders for a while, but eventually complained that it wasn’t warm enough. This seemed reasonable as 2-D himself was often chilled. However, his bedroom had no windows, so he had found Addie the best seat in the house – so to speak – once Noodle had given her permission to sleep on the window ledge.

Since then, Addie had not stirred herself much. She hunted rodents when the sun was no longer at its peak, and curled up near Heather in the dead of night to leech her body heat, but otherwise did little. She certainly did not race around and wrestle like the cats did. Even Heather got off the studio grounds now and then, taking walks with Noodle when the weather was good and the undead sluggish, but Addie did not join them.

“We were talking about beauty and human thought,” Noodle said, hoping to divert the discussion into something uplifting. She put her guitar aside and plucked Bess from her shoulder, sitting the cat in her lap to stroke her fur. Nodding to Heather, she said, “Please, continue.”

“Well, there isn’t very much,” Heather told her. “Gods like us are, as I have said, the culmination of concept and human thought. We are, fundamentally, natural forces that affect a certain sphere. Humans, being what they are, like face to face interaction. In order to have it, they gave those forces forms they could understand. Animals first, I believe, although the timeline is a bit blurry, and then human. Both representational, symbolic. Not intended to be literal, I don’t think, but… imagination and belief are forces of their own. Gods have always existed, but humans gave them form. Beauty exists fundamentally, but you give it form.”

“And you are the avatar of beautiful things?” Noodle pressed, curious now. She thought she could believe such a thing. Heather’s large brown eyes were warm and she radiated serenity.

“Primarily,” Heather said. “Many things are beautiful, and beauty can be many things. Heartwarming, sweet, soft, refreshing, revitalizing, loving, but also terrible, vicious, hurtful, and cruel. This is why there are so many of us. Humans confuse us, bind us together, or beget new gods from us.”

“This is why expressions like ‘drink ’til they’re pretty’ exist,” Sasha opined.

Noodle giggled, familiar enough with the concept to understand the comment was intended to be a joke as much as a criticism.

“Murdoc might say something like that,” she admitted. A faint wash of horror swept over her and she wondered if she should share such secrets, but there was a comfort about Heather that drew the thoughts from her. Something motherly. She loved her bandmates dearly and they had always taken care of her, but none of them were mothers. “He would not mean it, only use it to excuse his drinking, but it is no less cruel.”

“What about 2-D?” Muffy said.

Noodle grinned. “2-D thinks all girls are pretty. Maybe a few boys, too, but definitely all girls. Russel thinks people are pretty when they are pretty on the inside, so he would say no such thing,” she added, although they had not asked.

“How people see beauty will affect how beauty is seen,” Heather said. “As concepts of beauty change, beauty itself changes. The core concept is still there, but how it looks, how it acts, and how people interact with it are all different.”

“That sounds wonderful!” Noodle exclaimed, entranced by all the things that could become beautiful to others simply by sharing the beauty she saw in them.

“That isn’t always a good thing,” Heather warned. “If the definition of beauty becomes too narrow, then all things outside of it become… other.”

“The other is terrible,” Sasha yawned. “No one likes the other.”

“No one,” Muffy agreed. “The other is alien.”

“The other makes strange,” Bess added. “It’s harsh.”

“Angry.”

“Vicious.”

“Sterile.”

“The other is war,” Noodle said as unwelcome feelings bubbled within her. What had been her purpose, but to bring death upon the other?

“The other is necessary,” Heather said, interrupting the swell of her thoughts. “Without the other, there is no familiar. And it can be beautiful, too. You make beautiful music, but you are other. You were not born here,” she clarified when Noodle frowned, uncertain. “Neither was I, but I know what ‘England’ is, and you are not ‘English’. You are other.”

“In Japan, I am English,” Noodle confided, “and yet, not. I was born in Japan and I look Japanese, but I was raised in England for most of my proper memory, so I act English in many ways. And yet, England can still be other to me. I feel as though I am neither Japanese, nor English. That is… perhaps more other than I would like to be.”

“And yet, you are very beautiful,” Heather told her. “In your music and your person. Everyone here loves you. It might be in spite of your otherness, or it might be because of it. It seems to me that most of your band can sense and understand what it means.”

“Russel has brown skin,” Noodle agreed. “Many people do not like that. They think that is other.”

“But very familiar to me,” Heather said, amused. “2-D is the one who would look other.”

“2-D is also other, but in his head,” Noodle admitted, touching her temple. “He does not think like most people think.” She lowered her hand to touch her chest. “Murdoc is other in his heart. He has made his otherness. He wears it like armour.”

“The other is very strong,” Heather agreed, “but though it is necessary, it cannot stand alone. Darkness needs light for its existence and light needs darkness also. The darkness is frightening. The light is familiar. But too much light is harsh and unyielding. In these circumstances, the darkness is soothing. Dusk brings relief from the day. Dawn brings relief from the night. Such is the nature of balance.”

“That is much the way I feel, although I have never put it into words,” Noodle said, delighted.

She enjoyed philosophies and the deconstruction of common perceptions. These were not things with which she could engage her bandmates overmuch. Russel was in favour of deconstruction, of course, but his ventures always fell into paranoid fantasy. She could not blame him, given the life he had led, but it put them in a rut from which they could not extricate themselves. Murdoc had many philosophies, all of which benefitted Murdoc as the benefit of Murdoc was his overarching philosophy. 2-D had many strange and wonderful thoughts, many unusual perspectives, but he could not articulate them in any way that might lead to discussion. They popped out of his mouth at odd times and in odd places, with no follow-up or pursuit.

With Heather – with all of the newcomers, really, but with Heather in particular – she could engage in thought exercises at length, asking questions and receiving answers that could be questioned in turn. Sometimes the philosophies they discussed conflicted, but only if used in the same context. Perspective changed philosophy and context was everything. If—

A quick knock on her doorframe derailed her train of thought. 2-D hovered in the doorway, looking sheepish, as if he had caught her in her bra and panties.

“Um,” he said. And then, “Are you having a girl day? Can I come in? I can go if you’re having a girl day. Russel thinks you ought to have more of them ‘cause—“

“You are always welcome,” Noodle interrupted before 2-D could publicly announce what Russel thought about girl days.

In truth, she would have preferred that he left. She was quite happy talking to Heather and the conversation would be simplified, or at least more staggered, now that 2-D was there to interrupt and request repetition. Still, she cared for him, and it was a conversation that could be picked up later. She was also hogging the attention of divine creatures who could only gain freedom by being 2-D’s companions and felt complicit in their circumstances. If they all conversed together, the sentence might be shortened or a workaround discovered.

2-D eased himself in among them, and sat cross-legged on the floor with his back to the wall beside the window in which Addie curled for her nap. He wobbled as he sat, slightly unfocused and dreamy-eyed. Noodle suspected he had recently taken his prescription and followed it up with marijuana, enough to stave off withdrawal, but not quite enough to knock him out. Once he was settled, Muffy abandoned her to trot across the room and flop over into 2-D’s lap.

“Traitor!” Bess called after her.

“You’re just jealous because I have more massage hands than you,” Muffy returned to a chorus of boos and hisses.

“Well, she is not wrong,” Noodle admitted, scritching Bess’s ears with one hand and Sasha’s with the other. “I can only pet two cats at once with one hand apiece. Is there something that you wanted?” she added, turning her attention to 2-D. “Although you are welcome, you do not often come into my room.”

“Oh. Um,” 2-D mumbled, and then hemmed and hawed a little before settling on, “I guess I just wanted to see how ever’one was doing. Make sure you’re all still comfortable. Somethin’ like that.”

“Raw fish,” Sasha told him. “My life would be ten times better with raw fish.”

“We were gonna get that,” 2-D told her, “but Russ says it won’t keep if we get lots of it unless we freeze it, but then i’s not fresh, an’ i’s too hard to get just a bit at a time every time. But maybe, if i’s not all the time, I can get some. For a day, like. I can probably do that.”

“Not great, but it’ll do,” Sasha told him. “I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”

“You could find something else to wish for.”

2-D flinched at Addie’s words, glancing at the snake from the corner of his eye.

“I tried that,” he said quietly, eyes downcast, “but it dun work. Huey says i’s not ‘true’ enough, but I dun know how to make it more true.”

Addie flicked her tongue in and out, considering.

“He just means that you like the feeling of keeping us here better than the feeling of letting us go,” she said.

“I dun know what I’m s’posed to feel to let you go.” 2-D gave up on petting Muffy to pick at his fingers. “I was asked to call you. I din’t know you would get stuck or else I wouldn’t’ve done it. That dun mean I dun want you to be comfortable. If there’s something that works good for snakes, maybe I can get it for you. Unless maybe you weren’t supposed to be a snake? But you’re a very pretty snake—“

“It’s not being a snake that I mind,” Addie told him, resting her head back on the coils of her body, though she refused to look at him. “It’s that you called us all here on a whim without knowing what you were doing. Just ripped us away from our state of being and dumped us here. Pulled us out at random. I was with my sister. You could have brought us both, but didn’t.” She paused, then, staring out the window. “I miss her.”

“I din’t know you had a sister,” 2-D said, perking up slightly. “Do you have a very big family?”

“Not that kind of sister,” Addie admitted. “Words like ‘sister’ and ‘brother’ can be used literally, but we also use them as titles, of a sort. My sister is my equal opposite. We complement each other. When we are not together, we are out of balance.”

“Opposite, in this case, as two halves of a job,” Heather explained when 2-D’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Sometimes a husband and wife will call each other ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ in much the same way. It implies someone who is equal, but plays a different role. Kings will call the rulers of other countries ‘brother’ as a term of respect and those of noble birth will sometimes call each other ‘brother’ or ‘sister’ to indicate that they recognize the person is of similar social standing. It is not a word you would use with someone who is beneath you.”

“I do much the same,” Noodle interjected. “In Japanese there are many words that depend on context. I sometimes call 2-D my brother because Gorillaz is like my family and 2-D is someone older than me who is… on the same wavelength.”

If 2-D noticed that Noodle had narrowly missed implying he was not entirely mature enough to be considered “adult”, he hid it well. He grinned at her analogy and confirmed that it was true.

“Do you have brothers or sisters?” he said, turning to Heather.

“Some people call Sasha my sister,” she replied.

“Some people call us the same person,” Sasha snorted, wrestling Noodle’s hand.

“Because our functions overlap,” Heather confirmed. “I promote beauty, but the other side of that is ugliness. Good health is beautiful. Disease can make ugly.”

“Disease can eradicate humanity,” Sasha growled around the web of Noodle’s hand. “Disease is powerful. Healing eradicates disease. Healing is _more_ powerful.”

“Healing is life. Life is beautiful.”

“Unless it’s cancerous. Cancer kills.”

“Oh,” 2-D murmured, looking thoughtful. Noodle wondered if he understood or only wished to appear attentive. Either one could be true although, she shamefully thought, even if 2-D understood, it would take a while for the full impact of the logic to set in. “How ‘bout imagination? Mum always said I had a lot of that. Is that beautiful or powerful?”

“Can’t be much of either if you can’t even imagine another wish,” Addie snorted from the window sill.

“Oh. Um. Well… I _can_,” 2-D murmured sheepishly. “I’s just that, like I said, I dunno how to make it true enough. I can want things, but… but I guess I can’t want them _more_ than… Well…”

He stood up then, and brushed himself off with the hand that was not full of Muffy. Muffy, for her part, meeped at the sudden height and wriggled in his grip until he stooped a little and let her jump to the group.

“Sorry,” 2-D added, flushed red. “I forgot. Should’a let you choose first. Anyway… um. I’m gonna go help Murdoc with… with… I’m gonna go help Murdoc.”

“Ugh,” Muffy murmured, jumping back up beside Noodle as 2-D disappeared into the hall. “He looks sad. I feel bad now, but I didn’t want to go anywhere by myself.”

“I do not suppose that wishing one had never done something counts as a boon, does it?” Noodle said.

“No,” Heather said. “Although he was unaware of what he would cause, he _was_ the one who summoned us. What is set in motion must follow through to completion.”

“I suppose,” Noodle said, and then put the question from her mind.

There was nothing _she_ could do about it anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Abusive actions and a suicide dare.

“What the fancy crap is this?”

A very large black bird, the size of a small child, looked down from its perch above a plush, overstuffed chair. Beside it, a much smaller and fluffier raptor followed its line of sight and puffed up in indignation.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Harry said.

“Come down here and fucking stop me,” Tom replied. “I’ll rip your flight feathers out.”

“This is Murdoc’s room,” Harry continued, unperturbed. “He doesn’t want any of us in here. I’m only allowed because Cortez likes me.”

Tom took note of this grave pronouncement by flopping down and making himself at home. “I thought Murdoc lived in the caravan thing.”

“It’s called a ‘winnebago’ and he does,” Harry told him. “At least he sleeps in there. He doesn’t have room for _all_ his things though. He keeps books and music and things in here.”

This explained many things, particularly the fact that the room resembled nothing more than an oversized storage unit with a chair and ottoman, a reading light, and a record player. The perch, placed near a window with a dual hinge and simple magnetic latch, accommodated Cortez.

Tom scanned what shelves he could see from his reclined position and begrudgingly granted tentative approval to the collection of war and suspense novels, music history, and esoteric knowledge. The record albums did not have spines to read, but he had been around long enough to hazard a guess at their contents: a variety of hard and heavy rock music – anything with an extensive bass line, really – supplemented with experimental and exceptional albums from other, blendable genres. Classical music would be no exception.

“Fancies himself a danger, I take it,” Tom said, covering a closer look by sitting up to scratch his ear.

“He says he’s a Satanist.”

“What kind,” Tom asked. When Harry only hunkered down and cocked his head in confusion, he clarified, “What kind of Satanist?”

“The usual kind, I suppose,” Harry said.

“Really? ‘Cause there are a few different types,” Tom told him, rejecting nonchalance to trot over to one of the bookcases. “I’ve met some of them. If you were to ask me what type he was, I’d say ‘commercial’. It’s all about the look of the thing.”

“Sometimes he sits in here drinking, flipping through his books, and talking about how he made a deal with the devil,” Harry contested.

“Believable. He’s got some high-class stuff here,” Tom said, pawing at one of the books until it fell to the floor and flopped open to a random page.

“You shouldn’t be touching that,” Harry warned.

“I mean, if you don’t try shit out, how can you be convincing?” Tom continued, ignoring him. “This is even a decent printing. Colour me impressed.”

“I said you’re not allowed to touch those,” Harry repeated, ruffling his wings, as Tom pulled himself up to knock a book off the second shelf.

“And I said, ‘come down here and fucking stop me’,” Tom replied, nosing through the book. “You’re what candy companies typically call ‘fun sized’ at the moment, so I’d like to see you try. Oh, I like this one. Translation’s bad, but the colour plates are quality.”

“If it were me, I wouldn’t care, but Cortez doesn’t like you going through Murdoc’s stuff.”

This did give Tom pause. Cortez was very big.

“I’ll eat him too,” Tom decided. “Although, if he’s worried about the mess, he should just stay up there. A fight will only make things worse.”

Harry said nothing to that. A fight would _definitely_ make things worse.

“There you are! You oughtn’t nose around Murdoc’s things. He dun like it.”

2-D ducked his head into the room, unaware of having interrupted the early stages of war. He worried his lip and glanced around as though concerned his presence might summon Murdoc and start a row. Decided, he stepped cautiously into the room and picked up the books Tom had knocked to the floor.

“I’m allowed,” Harry said as 2-D slotted the books back into the bookcase. “Cortez vouched for me. We’re having a chat.”

“A’s very nice,” 2-D said, grinning as he stood. “I’s good to make friends. Is Tom chatting with you too?”

“Yes,” Tom said.

“No,” Harry said. “He’s interrupting. Murdoc doesn’t want anyone else in here,” he added, earning a look of pure disgust.

“Oh, well… I dun think Murdoc would mind so much if you were all friends together. Is he really interrupting?”

“No,” Tom said.

“_Yes_,” Harry intoned with surprising menace.

2-D affected a look of disappointment. “I’s not nice to interrupt people’s conversations.”

“Told you,” Harry said, smugly.

“An’ i’s not nice not to invite others to join.”

“Ha!” Tom retaliated, and then yelped as 2-D bent to pick him up. “NO! PUT ME DOWN!”

“I’s just a minute.”

“NO MINUTES!”

“I’s just until we’re out of Murdoc’s room,” 2-D insisted, “or else you won’t go.”

“I’LL LEAVE!”

“Leave where?”

Tom’s protests choked off as 2-D jumped and cringed, squeezing him a bit too hard.

“Hello, Murdoc,” 2-D grinned, shrinking back slightly from the man who stood in the doorway. “Tom got into your room. He din’t know he wan’t allowed. I’d just come in to get him. ‘Cept now you’re in the door and we can’t go.”

“Am I, now?”

“Yeah.”

“Blocking you?”

“Um… yeah.”

Murdoc glared at 2-D and the little animal he held in his arms.

Tom glared back, unimpressed. 2-D, however, shuddered and began offering placating excuses.

“I din’t look at anything,” he said, “an’ I only touched a book Tom knocked off the shelf. He din’t mean it,” 2-D added quickly, “but it was onna floor an’—”

“I totally meant it,” Tom said, glaring at Murdoc.

“Um… but we’re leaving now,” 2-D finished. “If you want.”

“Or we can stay for tea and crumpets,” Tom added. “If you want.”

Murdoc’s glare eased into cool detachment as he regarded them both, and then stepped aside, highlighting the path with a sweeping gesture.

“By all means,” he said. “Carry on. Don’t let a little thing like invasion of privacy ruin your day.”

2-D, preparing for a meek withdrawal, suddenly bristled.

“I _said_ I din’t touch anything,” he shot back as he swept by Murdoc. “I just went to get Tom ‘cause he din’t know not to go in. You’re bein' mean for no reason now.”

Murdoc allowed 2-D to reach the hallway before grabbing his upper arm and shoving him up against the wall. 2-D grunted on impact and squeezed Tom, who yelped.

“Look, sunshine,” Murdoc growled, leaning in close enough to make 2-D shrink back, hunkering down into his T-shirt. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you since the band went on hiatus, but you’ll want to watch you’re not getting too big for your britches.”

“You’ll want to watch your face isn’t so close to my teeth.”

Murdoc rolled his eyes toward Tom, whose lips peeled back in what might have been a grin.

“Hey,” Tom said, two inches from Mudoc’s face.

“Right. Well,” Murdoc said, pulling back and releasing 2-D’s arm to give him a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t let it happen again or I’ll drop-kick your friend into next week.”

With that, Murdoc turned away, disappeared into the room, and closed the door behind him.

2-D stared after him for several moments before turning his attention to Tom.

“That wan’t very nice,” he said, walking back toward the stairwell.

“You’re telling me,” Tom replied, unconcerned. “That guy’s a dick.”

“I mean, it wan’t very nice to say you’re gonna bite someone’s face.”

“Oh, _I’m_ not very nice. Fuck you very much. I’m not the one shoving people up against walls.”

“True,” 2-D admitted, “but a’s just Murdoc. You… You get used to him. Know how to avoid stuff.”

“He’s a dick. I’m gonna bite him next time.”

“No, you won’t. He’s just… He’s had a rough time.”

“Everyone’s had a rough time if they’ve been living with him,” Tom said cheerfully, and then rolled his eyes at 2-D’s look of reproach, at least insofar as he could. “I know a snake when I see one.”

“Dun bite ‘im.”

Tom snorted. “Fine. Are you going to put me down now? You said it was only until we got out of the room.”

“Oh. Um… Yeah. A’right,” 2-D said and stooped to let him down.

“Better yet, put me up on the shelf in the TV room,” Tom told him.

“Why would you wanna be onna shelf?”

“‘Cause I think I can take Harry, but only if he’s on the ground. I’m going to bite his flight feathers out when he lands up there.”

2-D frowned. “A’s not nice. You two ought to get along.”

“Wow, do I have news for you…”

“Dun pull out Harry’s feathers.”

“You really are a killjoy,” Tom snorted. “Fine. I won’t pull birdbrain’s feathers out. Now, put me down.”

“You’re like Murdoc sometimes,” 2-D sighed as he deposited Tom on the floor. “Mean for no reason.”

“I’ve got plenty of reasons,” Tom informed him, “the main one being, ‘someone has to be’.”

Tom trotted after 2-D as he walked along in silence. It was really in his best interest to do a quick fade, but he was curious how 2-D would react.

In time, 2-D said, “People oughtn’t be mean.”

“Maybe not, but they are,” Tom told him. “You say it’s mean now, but you’d laugh in the right context.” He scampered ahead to get a better look at 2-D’s face before adding, “And I know you know I’m right because you look like you ate a lemon. You’ve done mean things.”

“I s’pose,” 2-D admitted, the worry creases smoothing into sadness. “I dun mean to be, but I must be sometimes. Gods ought to be better though.”

“Nah,” Tom told him, inordinately pleased by the accuracy of his assessment. “Bad stuff happens. Sometimes it’s necessary and sometimes it’s not, but no one ever likes it.”

“If it has to happen, maybe i’s not bad,” 2-D offered.

“If people don’t like it, it’s bad,” Tom returned, “and people don’t like a lot of stuff. Mainly anything different. But all that stuff needs looking after too, and I was elected.”

“I dunno. I dun think you’re bad. You just act it sometimes.”

“Your optimism is off the charts.”

“I dun think so,” 2-D insisted. “You’re a good dog, really.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“All dogs are good dogs,” 2-D insisted. “Maybe all gods are good gods, too.”

Having reached the lower level, 2-D plunked himself down on the bottom steps and watched Tom carry on a few paces before realizing 2-D was no longer with him, slowing to a halt, and turning to watch expectantly. When 2-D gave no indication that he intended to move any further, Tom flopped down on the floor and stared at him intently, tail twitching impatiently.

“Do you know,” 2-D began, “I went with Russ ‘cause I wanted to see mummies.”

“Overrated,” Tom sniffed.

“Maybe,” 2-D allowed. “But I watch lots of horror films. Zombies are best, but sometimes there are mummies. The walkin’ dead like. But they’ve got other kinds of mummies. Like, robotic ones. I saw those on Doctor Who once. I thought mummies would be cool, so that’s why I went. I din’t mean to call everyone here. I thought I was bein’ helpful. I wouldn’t’ve done if I’d known. I’m sorry I did. I would make it better if I knew how, but none of my wishes are ‘true’ enough. Do you know how to fix that?”

“Have you tried dropping dead?” Tom said. “You asked,” he added when 2-D flinched. “It’s nothing personal. It’s just what is. If one half of the contract drops dead, then the contract is null. That or completed,” he mused. “We’ll have fulfilled our half, technically speaking.”

“I din’t think of that,” 2-D said, folding his arms on his drawn-up knees and resting his chin on them.

“I’m not saying do it,” Tom told him in the gleeful tones of someone implying exactly what was not said, “but it would work. Death solves a surprising number of problems.”

“Not very nice though, is it?” 2-D said, voice dull.

“No, not really,” Tom agreed. “Do you plan to sit there all day? I want to get a drink from the kitchen.”

“Go if you want. I’mma stay here a bit.”

“All right, suit yourself,” Tom told him. He sat up and scratched his ear, causing his collar to jangle, before adding, “You should maybe consider that not all dogs are good dogs. Later!”

2-D watched Tom disappear around a corner and sat on the stairs until he decided that a drink would be very good, and followed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Appropriate inappropriateness of a sexual nature, an implied threat of violence, and a hint of depression.

“You didn’t strike me as a believer.”

“I’m a believer in a lot of things,” Russel said, reclined on his bed, thumbing through a magazine. A take-out container full of rib bones and the sad remains of a cup of coleslaw cluttered the night stand. Piled on these were several orange peels, the remains of Huey’s snack.

The baboon was currently making his way through a jar of assorted nuts.

“Unusual for the intellectual types these days, I find,” Huey said. “Not that different from the past, perhaps, but at least the philosophers were on board then. The bookish types, not so much. Scientific minds are surprisingly keen on belief.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t take much to believe when the weird shit just keeps happening to you,” Russel said.

In truth, he was coming to enjoy Huey’s company. His sense of humour could use some fine tuning, but it was rare for Russel to find someone else of an intellectual bent to chat with. There was Noodle, of course, who was remarkably smart for her age, but there were still many things on which they could not connect. Her intellectual views, while keen, were of a holistic nature that Russel found himself unable to wrap his head around. In spite of dealing with the supernatural since he was a child, spirituality escaped him. Or, perhaps, it was these dealings that killed any connection he might have with spirituality.

“What I mean is, it doesn’t take much to believe in the weird shit,” Russel amended. “Gods I’ve never dealt with much and don’t really know how to feel about ‘em, you know? You get raised with stuff, but that doesn’t mean you settle into it. Demons are easy when you’ve been possessed. So are ghosts.”

“Demons might not be too far off,” Huey said. “At least, not when it comes to most gods. Demons have their sphere of influence and so do we. What’s done with it, well… that depends largely on the people who believe in them.

“We aren’t stagnant,” he continued. “General attitudes toward any sphere will shape that sphere. We change over time, although perhaps not as drastically as those who have legions of active followers. When it comes to one-on-one interaction, the belief of the individual will often shape that interaction. Even so, belief can only go so far. Wisdom will remain wisdom, even in the hands of a fool. It might be devalued, but it will never be a box of cracker jack.”

Russel chuckled a bit at the image and wondered if Huey’s sense of humour was improving. Maybe they were rubbing off on him.

“I’ve got no idea how D pulled you through then,” he said. “Half of you are much too sophisticated for him to latch on to, the cats are pure energy, and the rest is Tom.”

“Symbols can be powerful,” Huey said. “We all have associated animal symbols. He seems the type who really loves animals. It might be safe to assume that he simply latched on to the symbols and his desire to be near them without consideration for their spheres of influence. I doubt he even realized the latter was an option. He is certainly no priest. He does not even have a vested interest in the supernatural beyond what he sees on film. The scroll, which should have never ended up in a museum in the first place, should have been unusable. He was manipulated into a summoning with what little he had.”

“I gotta level with you,” Russel said. “I’ve got mixed feelings about that. Maybe D shouldn’t have done it at all, but since he did, I can’t say I’m sorry he messed up. As much as I feel bad for all of you stuck in animal forms, I’m not sure I like the idea of a bunch of humans wandering around with godly powers.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t have had godly powers as humans any more than we have them now,” Huey confessed. “We would no doubt have been unusually talented humans in those areas covered by our realms of influence, but human flesh is human flesh and has its limitations. It just so happens that it’s very nice to walk around as a physical creature now and then. Things are… sharper and more intense as humans. Food is better. Everything is more visceral. We did it far more often when it was expected of us, but as attitudes shifted it became harder to do on our own. The belief was that we would be influencers rather than walk among the people. Still, it occurred now and then, often with a summons, sometimes with a boon attached.

“Normally, we retain control of our own forms when we manifest, even when summoned,” he explained. “The current complication is the scroll 2-D used. Since it allowed him to create the bodies assigned to us, he retains a certain control. We can use them as we see fit, but we cannot shape or discard them until the boon has been met. He, on the other hand, might shape us in ways we haven’t thought of.”

“What the Hell do you mean by that?” Russel demand. The prospect sounded alarming.

“I can’t be sure,” Huey mused. “The scroll has never been used by a human, at least not in this way. But the flesh we wear is tied to him, and we are tied to the flesh.”

Russel supposed Huey sensed his alarm because he added, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. 2-D is adamant that he wants ‘clever animal friends’, but does not seem to have any expectations of us beyond this. It’s the crux of the problem with regards to wish fulfilment, but not especially powerful or transformative. It seems 2-D takes things as they come to him and believes in things as they are.”

“I don’t know about that,” Russel confided. “He doesn’t seem to believe that Murdoc’s an asshole.”

“He’s optimistic,” Huey agreed, “but there are worse things in the world than someone wishing the best for you.”

“Must you do that on the coffee table?”

Noodle paused in the doorway, shopping bags in hand, and glared at Tom, caught in the act of very vigorously and provocatively washing himself.

“Like you wouldn’t lick your clit if you could bend in half,” he told her.

“You are very rude,” Noodle said.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Russel would not be impressed. He would tell you that I am only fifteen. Well, _very nearly_ fifteen.”

“So you know what I’m talking about.”

Noodle pressed her lips together in disapproval and continued to eye Tom as she deposited her bags on one of the chairs. In spite of the distaste she tried to project with every fibre of her being, a niggling thought wormed into her mind.

_I totally would._

“_Bad_ girl,” Tom smirked as though he could hear her thoughts. Perhaps he reacted to her expression, although she felt confident in her ability to keep a cool façade.

She continued to glare disapproval as Tom jumped down off the coffee table and circled around her.

“I like bad girls,” he said. And then, “You’re military.”

Noodle froze, the memories she had only just regained flooding back, filling the raw spaces inside her with acid.

“What do you mean?” she said, schooling her features to hide the pain of her past.

“Don’t be stupid,” Tom told her, circling around. “I can smell it on you. That and Russel mentioned something to that effect at some point. But, now that I’ve a nose, I can also smell it on you. Awfully young for military, but what do I know?”

“What does it matter?” Noodle challenged.

“It means you know how to use a gun,” Tom said, ending his rotation to sit in front of her. “Shoot me.”

The request startled Noodle so much that she stumbled back a step, certain she must have misheard.

“No, you got it right,” Tom told her. “Shoot me. It’s not like I’ll die. Oh, sure, the body’ll drop dead, but I’ve been outside this place, so I doubt disposal will be a problem. The rest of me will just keep on doing whatever it was doing before this bullshit started. I was given flesh and fulfilled my contract as someone’s pet for the rest of my life. Win/win as far as I’m concerned.”

The thought horrified Noodle. There was a reason she rejected the purpose for which she was trained. Being raised a child soldier was bad enough, but the thought of killing someone, anyone, even an animal, in cold blood was abhorrent.

“You do not want me to,” she denied. “If you truly wanted to die, you would have found a way to do it on your own.”

“Can’t. That’s reneging on the deal,” Tom told her. “If I’d completed my half already, that would be something else entirely, but since I haven’t, I can’t be an agent. Now, if a third party wants to make it their business…”

“If you coerce me, you will still be an agent,” Noodle pointed out.

“I’m not coercing you. I can’t make you do anything. I’m just pointing out that, if you kill me, you will doing me a huge favour.”

Tom regarded her a while as she thought his statement over, and then pricked up his ears and jumped back up onto the coffee table, sprawling there, tail twitching, just as the cats came tearing into the room.

“Noodle!”

“Noodle! What did you bring us?”

“Did you find fish?”

“No, I did not go to the fish market,” Noodle told the cats regretfully. “Nor will they let me buy beer. I will look for these things when I go with Russel. I did get some pretty beds for you though. And catnip too.”

“Ooo… catnip!”

“I like catnip.”

“You’re forgiven for the fish.”

“They’re in the same boat, you know,” Tom said, his voice carrying over the feline squabble on the floor even though he did not raise it. Noodle dug through the bags, unsuccessfully trying to ignore him. “And 2-D, well… he feels pretty bad about it. He just doesn’t know what to do.”

“2-D?”

“Is this about the summoning?”

“Yeah, 2-D feels bad.”

“He’s been really sad these days. I even told him he could share my fish, but he didn’t want it.”

“I told him where he could get the best weed and he didn’t want it.”

“Ooo… that’s _bad_.”

That _was_ bad, Noodle thought. If 2-D was turning down drugs, he must be upset.

“And, of course,” Tom added as she fished out the container of catnip and fought with the seal on the lid, “as the other party in the contract, there are certain solutions he can’t act upon.”

“No,” Noodle decided, finally breaking into the catnip and rolling some of it around in the palm of her hand to release the oils before raining it down on the mad scramble below her.

“Because of me or because of them?”

Strangely, Noodle did not think Tom was lying about his death freeing him from the contract, but she thought he told the truth the way 2-D sometimes did when he was angry: with the bare bones fact of it, stripped of context and kindness.

She watched the cats roll around in the herbal shower and winced inwardly at the sudden, unwelcome thought of snapping each of their necks. Surely there was a better way. She did not think an honest mistake, born of the desire to help, should be solved with such violence. Not even the thought of Addie, curled up sadly on her window ledge swayed her from this belief. 2-D was a creature of intuition and whim. In time his desires would shift and he would find something else to want, a wish that could be more easily fulfilled. If anything, the constant pressure to make a choice prevented him from doing so. It kept his mind on the problem instead of allowing it to wander and be inspired.

“Because of _me_,” she told Tom. “I can make peace with what was made of me because I will be that thing no longer. I will find a way to help 2-D with his decision.”

“Cool, cool,” Tom said and dropped down from the coffee table on the side opposite the cats. “He’s got an extra option anyway. You can’t renege on terms you’ve already met.”

“What did he ask you for?” Muffy said, batting Noodle’s shoes as she crouched down to see under the table. Tom was gone, vanished as if into thin air.

“A favour,” Noodle told her.

“What did you say?”

“I told him no.”

“Good call,” Sasha said, licking catnip from between her toes. “He’s a dick.”

Noodle considered this for several seconds before straightening up and digging through the bags again.

“Would you like to see the beds I bought?”

“Well, aren’t you a bloody ray of sunshine.”

It had taken some time to track down 2-D, who had not appeared to order food or even scrounge through the kitchen. This was not unusual in and of itself, but Murdoc could not remember the last time he had seen his singer searching for food, drugs, or other sustenance. They had not even spent any time recording lately, their talents suspended until the mixing crew had finished their work and the end results could be assessed, so 2-D had remained out of sight and mostly out of mind.

Tonight, Murdoc had begun to… not worry, no… but grow concerned at his lack of knowledge about his band’s current dynamic. He felt it only right that he remain appraised of all that was going on. It was a proprietary feeling, nothing more, but one that had driven him to check every room in the studio until he found 2-D sprawled on the sofa in what amounted to the den. There was the cinema, of course, but sometimes one simply wanted the intimacy of a smaller screen and it was this that held 2-D’s attention.

It was the thing he faced, at any rate, his expression blank and unreadable. If he had noticed Murdoc’s earlier arrival, he had given no sign. To his return and comment, he did little more than snort in reply.

“Don’t sulk,” Murdoc told him and bumped 2-D’s arm with a beer bottle. “I brought you a drink.”

The touch of the bottle startled the blank look from 2-D’s face and his brow furrowed in hurt confusion. It smoothed over as awareness of his surroundings settled in and he looked up at Murdoc briefly as he took the bottle. Then his expression fell again, his gaze rolling downward.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Well, don’t call out the parade,” Murdoc muttered drily, flopping down on the sofa beside him.

“I _said_ ‘thanks’,” 2-D replied, his voice irritated, but his expression unreadable as he continued to stare past the television.

“Is this about my chasing you out of my room? Is that what you’re sulking about?”

The annoyance in 2-D’s voice finally crept into his face, although his attention remained on the horizon.

“No. I know you dun like people in there,” he said. “And I _said_, I did. I _told_ you I just went in to get Tom ‘cause he din’t know. You din’t have to be mean for no reason.”

Accurate, Murdoc supposed, but he had needed to throw his weight around just then and 2-D was available. 2-D was always available and conveniently easy to bully. And it was good for him, Murdoc convinced himself. It kept him from rising too high. Rising too high and meeting with a terrible fall…

“I like the lesson to set in,” Murdoc told him, “although I suppose I might have been rougher than necessary. Nothing was out of order. Didn’t find that out until after the fact, mind.”

2-D only snorted at this and took a pull from the bottle.

“Where’s your guard dog anyway?” Murdoc said. “The one with the teeth.”

2-D’s mouth twitched in an almost imperceptible frown of concentration.

“Tom? I dunno. He’s gone off somewhere.”

“Sneaky, mad bastard, that one.”

“Tom’s a good dog,” 2-D said firmly and with utter conviction. “All dogs are good dogs.”

Murdoc had his doubts, but it was no skin off his nose.

There was nothing much on television, but they watched it anyway, until the silence became too deep and uncomfortable.

“I was gonna invite you out to the pub,” Murdoc said, “but if you’re gonna be a killjoy, you can just stay home.”

2-D cast him a glare so angry that Murdoc was taken aback and so brief that he wondered whether he had seen it at all. Turning back to the television, 2-D took another swig from the bottle, waited several thoughtful seconds, and replied with a question.

“Are there different kinds of true?”

“Beats me, I don’t truck with the stuff,” Murdoc told him. “What does it matter anyway?”

“I wanna want something a’s not animal friends, but nothing I want is ‘true’ enough,” 2-D told him.

Murdoc snorted.

“Is _that_ all? Bugger ‘em, I say. There are all sorts of ways to get out of a deal. I ought to know. But it’s the sort of thing you do when you’ve got what you wanted and don’t want to pay up.”

“But…”

“Shut-up,” Murdoc said, whacking 2-D lightly on the back of the head. “Did you ask for any of this? No. Some poncey bastard saunters up to you within hearing range and wants you to give them a hand. Promises you things. You help them out and now they want to scarper. You did your bit. They got theirs.”

“I’s not really what was asked for—”

“So? Fuck ‘em,” Murdoc spat. “If they’re willing to ask any unqualified berk to work magic for them, they get what they paid for. They owe _you_, not the other way around. It’s not up to you to clear their debt for them.”

They sat in silence a few moments more before Murdoc added, “If it makes you feel better, give all your wishes to me.”

2-D chuckled, a dark sound that was not without some humour.

“I would if I could, but I dun think I can,” he said. “You’d prob’ly have to make a whole new deal.”

“So fuck ‘em,” Murdoc reiterated. “I don’t see any of ‘em here trying to woo you and change your mind. Come out to the pub, have some drinks, and let them worry about how they’re gonna pay up.”

“A’right, I will,” 2-D agreed.

They finished their drinks and fetched their jackets before heading into the night. 2-D was stinking drunk before he laughed normally again – normally for him, at any rate, Murdoc thought – and needed to be all but carried back to the studio, but the fix would have been cheap at twice the price. A moping 2-D was functionally useless as far as Murdoc was concerned, and if he fared no better with a hangover, well…

It was better than the alternative, and that was what mattered.


	10. Chapter 10

“Oh, there you are.”

2-D looked up from his screen and paused the video to watch Tom sniff around the floor of his bedroom. He moved in a sinuous fashion, quite strange for a dog, and jumped back when he got too close to the laundry pile.

“Don’t you ever wash this shit?” Tom said, ears flat as he hunched and scurried around the clothing.

“Yeah, but i’s not laundry day,” 2-D told him.

“When was the last one? A year ago?” 2-D decided the question must be rhetorical as Tom plunked himself down beside the bed and immediately followed it with, “What happened to your face?”

“I got hit inna face with a car,” 2-D said, puzzled. He was certain he had explained his hyphema before, but might be mistaken.

He so often was.

“No, not that,” Tom huffed. “The fresh one.”

“Oh. I think I ran into a door or something,” 2-D said, touching the bruise on his face. “I was out at the pub with Murdoc.”

“Uh-huh."

“I drank a lot. Murdoc said I was right pissed. All clumsy-like.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He said I ran into a few things before he got me inna car an’ he can’t remember which one did it.”

“Sure, he can’t.”

2-D pressed his lips together, not much liking Tom’s tone. That was fine. There were many things about Tom that were not very likeable. There were many things about many people that were not very likeable. They were still people.

“Anyway, I’m watchin’ a film,” 2-D said.

“By yourself?”

Suddenly unsure, 2-D took a quick glance around the room before answering.

“Yes?”

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Um, I think Noodle’s in her room,” 2-D said. “The girls are prob’ly with her ‘cause Addie likes her window and Heather likes to listen to her play guitar and the cats like her too, 'cept when they’re runnin’ around. Huey and Andrew are usually with Russel ‘cause of taxidermy, but you knew that. Harry flies around some, but mostly sleeps with Cortez on his perch in Murdoc’s room. I dun know where Murdoc is.”

“Have _any_ of them been down here?” Tom said. “Anyone like me,” he quantified before 2-D could tell him that his bandmates came down quite frequently.

“No, but… Well, i's a bit away from things,” 2-D said instead, knowing the excuse sounded as poor as it felt.

Tom stared up at him for several seconds, huffed, and then circled the bed, dodging the scattered piles of clothing.

“I swear, I have to do everything around here,” Tom muttered as he slunk around to the far side and hopped up onto the bed. “Kill our enemies! Protect the border! Reality’s stagnating… Do something! Not that! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

2-D nudged over a bit as Tom turned himself around a few times, eventually flopping down to make himself comfortable.

“So,” he said, “what are we watching?”

“Oh… Um. I’s _The Mummy_,” 2-D said, indicating his laptop as Tom eyed him curiously. “The funny one. Not the old horror one. I like horror, but I wanted to watch something funny. I dun know if you’d like it.”

“Bring it on and we’ll see,” Tom told him, tail twitching.

“I’s almost done,” 2-D warned. “Did you want me to start over?”

“Nah.”

“A’right,” 2-D said, adjusting the screen. Then he hit “play”.

He sat stiffly, half-expected Tom to comment on the remainder of the movie, but the little creature said nothing and 2-D managed to relax enough to croon quietly at the funnier moments until the credits rolled and he turned the movie off.

“Not very accurate, is it?” Tom said.

“No,” 2-D agreed. “Fiction isn’t gen’rally. A’s why i’s fiction,” he added helpfully when Tom only stared at him. “I’s like make-believe, you know? Like a story.”

He waited a beat.

“That’s fiction.”

And another.

“An’ isn’t real.”

He paused, wondering how best he could make his meaning clear, when Tom finally spoke.

“Are you done?”

“You din’t say nothing, so I thought I had to explain,” 2-D told him, somewhat annoyed that he should be led to believe that he should keep speaking when words were not wanted. “You dun need to make fun. I’s not like I can read minds.”

2-D sulked a moment, and then sighed.

“Sorry,” he said.

“What for?” Tom returned. “You’re right. You can’t. I just thought you had more to say, not that you were going to repeat yourself.”

“I’s rubbish, doin’ it that way,” 2-D told him, somewhat mollified. Being told he was right still felt new and rewarding. “Why would you?”

“I’m a dick. It’s in the job description.”

“An’ a’s a poor excuse,” 2-D admonished. “Ever’one's in a mood. You dun have to be mean on purpose!”

“Cheap excuses are the best excuses,” Tom said, scratching at his ear and neck, making his collar jingle. “I can go if you want me to.”

“No. I’s a’right,” 2-D told him. “I mean, not always, but if you’re in a mood too, I can’t let ever’one else off an’ not you, then, can I?”

“Technically, yes. You could.”

“Well, I won’t.”

“You’re a wild guy. I like that,” Tom said. 2-D had a brief moment to wonder if Tom was being sarcastic – he wasn’t always very good at sarcasm – when Tom added, “You got anything else in your library?”

“I’m really into magazines for knife collectors right now,” 2-D told him.

Tom blinked at him a moment before quantifying, “I meant film-wise.”

“Oh,” 2-D said. “Well… We could watch Doctor Who. You know when I said the stuff about the mechanical mummies? We could watch that one. Or something else if you want.”

“Sure,” Tom said. “Today’s boring. Serve it up.”

“I dun think it will be very accurate,” 2-D warned him, leery of another minor altercation.

“I will consider myself duly warned,” Tom told him. “Bring on the robo-corpses.”

“A’right,” 2-D relented, switching the movie, “but I think they’re just robots, not corpses at all. I’s very science-fictiony, you know. Mummies always make me think of it though,” he said as the title theme played. “The Doctor dun really have a name. I’s just ‘The Doctor’. But he was played by Tom Baker in this one. A’s why I called you ‘Tom’. ‘Cause the museum stuff made me think of it.”

“Well, colour me honoured,” Tom told him, worming around to get into a more comfortable position as the episode began to play.

They watched in silence for a while, the occasional thump of Tom’s tail against the bedsheets insinuating itself into the soundtrack until 2-D tuned it out completely, entranced, as he always was, by the story unfolding before him. Nearly three quarters of the story arc had finished before Tom’s voice startled him back to awareness.

“So… You watch this often?”

“Oh, i’s not my favourite, but I’ve watched it some,” 2-D told him. “I like the Daleks best, really.”

“You must be the dumbest person on the planet.”

“A’s what Murdoc says,” 2-D sniffed, “but he just dun have an appreciation for Daleks.”

2-D picked at his fingers and tried to get back into the story, but felt Tom’s eyes on him and wondered vaguely whether more was expected and whether the little creature could read his mind.

“The mummies are clunky, but the girl’s easy on the eyes,” Tom said, turning back to the screen.

“I know!” 2-D agreed, happy to find common ground. “Sarah Jane’s so pretty. I was gonna marry her when I was l’il. Well… marry her actress, I s’ppose, although, when I was l’il, I din’t know she had a different name. Then I got older and learned that this story is actually older than me! I had only seen the repeats. So, really, the actress was even older than she looked! But I thought it would be a’right. I mean, she’s still really pretty…”

“Bit old for a kid though,” Tom said.

“Well, I know that _now_,” 2-D huffed. “An’ I got more into horror after that. I got to watch my first horror movie on accident when I was six or seven. Or six and almost seven. It was zombies and very scary, but also really cool. I started a zombie pretend game at school called the ‘liver eating game’ an’ got sent home.”

“I cannot possibly fathom why you would get sent home for that,” Tom said without a hint of inflection.

“Well, it wan’t for that, really,” 2-D told him. “But there was this girl, Molly, in my class an’ she really liked the game an’ was really _good_ at it. I thought I would eat the most livers, but she had me down in seconds, only, instead of pretendin’ like she did with ever’one else, she grabbed my shirt an’ pulled it up and said all creepy-like, ‘I’m gonna eat your liver for _real_'. I think she liked me,” he confided to Tom, who watched him with such fascination that his tail stood still.

“You don’t say?” Tom said, readjusting his position in what, 2-D realized, would give the little creature a better view of him.

Bolstered, he continued.

“Yeah, ‘cause she said she’d eat my liver for real!” 2-D emphasized. “An’ then she leaned down to bite me, only I was pretty skinny an’ she couldn’t quite an’ had to suck on my skin a little to get some.” He paused to demonstrate on the back of his hand. “An’ then she bit me for real. Hard enough to leave teeth marks! But a teacher saw and sent us to the office an’ they called Dad to come an’ get me and take me to the hospital in case of infection. I told ‘em it wan’t a _real_ zombie virus, but they din’t listen and only said we couldn’t play the liver eating game anymore. Mum’s a nurse, but it wan’t her that fixed me up. It was someone else. I wan’t bleedin’ anymore anyway by then, but I was all bruised where I was bit with little scabby teeth marks. It din’t get infected, but Dad said I wan’t to play zombie games outside of school either.”

“I don’t know why you’d want to after that,” Tom commented.

“Well, it wan’t so bad,” 2-D said cautiously. “It hurt, but… It was kind of exciting too. It made me feel all shivery.”

“Did it now?”

“Yeah. I asked Dad why, but he was just quiet for a bit an’ then said life was like that sometimes.”

“I’m sure he did,” Tom said, his tone unknowable. “Bet you got a licking for that one.”

“No,” 2-D said. “Mum never spanked me. She said that was a punishment for adults.”

Tom sat silently for several seconds.

“I am shockingly unsurprised,” he said. “So what happened to Molly?”

“We were mates until we were twelve an’ then her dad got a new job and she moved away,” 2-D said and sighed. “I miss ‘er sometimes. It was really long ago, but I haven’t seen many girls who like horror films as much as Molly. Lots like ‘em, but not as much. Noodle watches with me sometimes, but a’s not the same really, an’ not just ‘cause she sometimes only pretends to like ‘em…”

2-D allowed himself to trail off and busied himself with shutting down his equipment. His room felt emptier than usual and the busywork allowed him to ignore it.

“Thank you for watching with me,” he told Tom, whose tail had begun to twitch again. He supposed the little creature was anxious to roam the studio. “Sorry the mummies weren’t very accurate.”

“They were fine for what they were,” Tom told him, making no move to leave. “I can hang out here tonight, if you want. No cuddling though.”

“A’right,” 2-D said, quietly pleased. The feeling of emptiness eased.

“_Some_ limited ear scratching may be permitted, but cuddling is right out.”

“I know.”

2-D switched off the light and settled in before something came to mind and he reached over to feel his way around Tom’s ears and down his neck.

“Hey! What’d I just say?” Tom snapped, prepared to fight, until 2-D’s fingers found the clasp they sought and Tom’s collar dropped onto the bed.

“Oh,” Tom said.

“I know you dun like it,” 2-D told him, transferring the collar from the bed to his side table. “Just stay on the property if you’re not wearin’ it.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you for staying,” 2-D said, rolling over and closing his eyes. “Even if you say you’re a dick.”

“Yeah, well…” Tom muttered, kneading his way into the blankets. “Guarding the hours of night is in the job description too.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Cortez went out to find rabbits.”

Murdoc regarded the somewhat puffy falcon, tilted his head in consideration, and then nodded once to indicate his acceptance of the statement.

Fetching a glass and a bottle of whiskey from the locked cabinet in his room, he poured himself a measure, took a sip, and questioned Harry further.

“Did he say why?”

“The undead haven’t been very restless lately, so he can’t go after their eyes and he’s leaving the rodents closest to the studio for me since I can’t fly as far as he can. Yet.”

“Mighty generous of him,” Murdoc said, plunking the bottle of whiskey on his side table and settling into his seat by the bird perch. Harry adjusted his position to maintain eye contact. “And I suppose thanks are owed for the translation. I’ve mostly had to guess at Cortez’s intentions. I mean, he’s bloody smart for a bird, but still a bird.”

“A lot of corvids can learn to talk,” Harry said. “Cortez does sometimes. I’ve heard him.”

“He’s done a few words,” Murdoc admitted, “but he’ll never write a sonnet. You’ve got actual vocabulary. Good. Useful. Not like the rest of your friends.”

“They’re useful in their own way,” Harry told him. “Just because you don’t need their help right now, doesn’t mean you wouldn’t ever.”

“So you say,” Murdoc replied, sipping his whiskey. “Frankly, I feel if you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself. Can’t trust anyone else worth a damn.”

“Uh-huh,” Harry trilled, bird-like. Murdoc wondered if he detected a note of sarcasm, but chalked it up to his imagination. “I thought you’d get along better with Tom, actually.”

“Sneaky little blighter,” Murdoc scoffed. “Good for a boot in the arse and not much else.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Oh, funny. I should punt you out the window for that one,” Murdoc snorted, and then thought it over. “Can’t say I would turn down what he’s offering, mind. What is it, then? Wealth? Power?”

“Power, wealth, and length of days,” Harry told him. “Also smiting of enemies if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“No enemies here, mate,” Murdoc said. “None that concern me at any rate. Can’t say you’re making your way in life without having _some_ enemies.”

He sat in silence a moment, mulling the situation over and wondering whether record executives counted as enemies. A moot point. The deal did not belong to him. He could want what he wanted, but it would never be provided. Unless…

“I don’t suppose 2-D can shift some of his wishes on to me?” Murdoc ventured.

“No,” Harry replied flatly. “Although, I suppose, he might be able to make one on your behalf. Maybe. You’d have to ask Huey. Not that they’re wishes anyway. They’re… influences. We all have our areas of influence.”

“Is that so?” It occurred to Murdoc that he did not know all that much about Harry. “What is it you cover then?”

“The state.”

Murdoc frowned. “The state of what?”

Harry hopped along the perch, head cocked and turned oddly to better look him in the eye.

“Just the state,” he said. “I am the face of the nation.”

“Like a frontman, then,” Murdoc said, settling into the comparison. “Something pretty for the crowds to look at while the actual operations go on behind the scenes. You ought to spend your time with 2-D then.”

Harry somehow managed to look guilty and exasperated all at once, dipping his body and tilting his head upward.

“Yes and no,” he said. “I _am_ the state. The power of the monarchy… When it’s in order. And I ought to spend time with 2-D anyway, but… I’m comfortable here.”

“Because of Cortez?”

“Yes… Because of Cortez,” Harry said, turning to look out the window. Murdoc did not feel he sought the raven so much as he sought to break eye contact. “And because of the balance.”

“Keep talking, sunshine. You don’t make a lick of sense, spitting out bits of words like you do.”

“Bird thoughts are fast. They come in pieces,” Harry said.

They sat in silence a moment, and then Harry continued.

“Do you really think 2-D’s an idiot?”

Murdoc chuckled and surprised himself with its ruefulness.

“Between you and me, the man hasn’t got two braincells to rub together and I’ve no trouble saying it ‘cause he’s my singer. I’ve made him what he is. He’d be nothing without me,” Murdoc said, ignoring the niggling thought in the back of his mind that Gorillaz would be nothing without 2-D. “I’d kill him some days, if I could. But you know how it is… the chippies _like_ a lead with a pretty face and not much upstairs. Better that way, in fact. If he had thoughts, he might get _ideas_. That he’s better than he is. That he can make it without me.”

Murdoc noticed the grip on his glass tightening and forced it to loosen before it caused a serious accident.

“But that’s between you and me,” he reiterated. “If I hear you twitter a word of it outside this room, I will broil you for dinner.”

“Yes,” Harry said, catching Murdoc’s eye again with his piercing gaze. “That is exactly the sense I meant.”

“Something on your mind, baby girl?”

Noodle looked up at Russel from her seat on the passenger side of the vehicle and waited for her brain to clue into the interruption of her thoughts and catch up with her.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Nothin’ much,” Russel assured her. “You’ve just been kind of distracted lately. I mean, you’re the one who asked to go into town, but it’s like you’re not all there.”

“Oh,” Noodle said. “Well…”

She sighed and wondered how best to approach the subject. Although it preyed on her mind, she did not want to discuss her encounter with Tom. After all, as crude and tasteless as he might make himself out to be, she did not find the little creature’s physical presence a worry and sharing the text of the conversation with Russel would only upset him.

It was the implications that worried her.

She had spent several days spying on 2-D. It was impossible to keep him in her sight at all times, of course, what with worrying over Addie and being asked on walks by Heather and being an impromptu climbing post for cats, but she thought she had tailed him well enough to have a handle on his state of mind. He seemed cheerful enough, if somewhat fretful.

However…

“I am worried about 2-D,” she admitted. “Many of the… visitors have been pressuring him to change his mind regarding his boon and this has upset him. I think they might have had more luck if they had simply let him alone, but it is on his mind now. He thinks of little else.”

“When he thinks,” Russel tossed back. “I’ve caught him staring blankly at as many walls as usual.”

Noodle could not help the half-giggle that escaped her.

“Perhaps,” she allowed, “but I do not believe he thinks of nothing in those moments. He simply… does not think in real world terms. And I believe he thinks of our visitors even then. I worry he might get ideas that are… drastic or dangerous.”

“You can say ‘Tom’, baby girl. He ain’t here.”

“Yes, there is Tom,” Noodle said, speaking delicately. “I have wanted to speak to 2-D alone if I could, but not in any way that made it obvious or signalled that it might be a serious matter. However, Tom has been hovering around him more often than not these few days. He wanders off, but always reappears just when 2-D seems to be on his own. He circles 2-D like a satellite and in some ways that worries me.”

“It would worry me,” Russel said. “I wouldn’t trust the little bastard further than I could throw him if you tied him to a hundred pound weight.”

“No,” Noodle murmured tentatively, “and yet…”

“And yet?”

“He is the only one that does.”

“Does what?”

“Stay near 2-D.”

Silence fell in the vehicle, thick and palpable. It did not bother Noodle as much as she thought it might. It was a good time to re-organize her thoughts on the matter. When she felt it had gone on for too long, she spoke again.

“What do you think of them?” she asked Russel. “Our ‘guests’, I mean. Do you think they are as they say?”

“I’d rather not, but I guess I do,” Russel told her, back on firmer ground. “They’re something weird anyway. I’ve got enough experience with the supernatural to know that.”

“I have had many interesting discussions,” Noodle confided, “about influences and states of being. I do not think they are what they were, but they are something very like it. Do you believe in them?”

Russel shrugged.

“I got asked something similar and said yes,” he replied, “but I don’t really know. I mean, I believe them, but I’m not sure that’s the same as believing _in_ them, you get me? They’re there, they’re something I don’t know much about, and there’s definitely supernatural shit going down – pardon my language – but none of it’s any skin off my nose.”

Noodle nodded.

“You believe they are not lying when they say what they say, but you have no faith in them,” she said. “I feel much the same. To say they are gods and each influence a sphere of understanding… It is much the same as telling me they are, oh… a cosmetologist from France. I can accept this, but it does not concern me. ‘It is no skin off my nose’, as you say. We accept them, you and I, because we can pick their stories apart intellectually and find nothing to protest. But do you know who _does_ believe?”

“2-D,” Russel said after a moment’s silence.

“2-D,” Noodle agreed. “Not in anything specific. He is simply… um… not an intellectual.”

Noodle uttered a rueful sigh, and then continued.

“He acts with his heart, not his thoughts. He has faith in things that he perhaps should not, such as people getting along and being kind and thinking of others. Things that are lovely to think, but cannot be assumed.”

“Like Murdoc not being a dick,” Russel interjected.

“I think he knows _that_,” Noodle replied. She grinned, an expression that should have been cheerful, but cracked at the corners. “But he has faith in improvements that I cannot believe will ever come. He is the perfect vessel of faith _and_ he is the holder of their contract, but our guests do not flock to him. They gather around those of us who share an interest, but prefer to analyze it from a distance. Why do you think this is?”

“You’re gettin’ way too deep for me, baby girl,” Russel said. “I’m not even gonna pretend to know what’s going through their heads. If I were to guess, though, I’d say they were attracted to those who enhance whatever ‘sphere of influence’ they belong to. Maybe they don’t need people who believe in them as physical beings, only people who believe in what they stand for. Everyone likes an ego boost.”

“Well then, does that say about 2-D?”

Noodle flashed her strained grin a second time as Russel glanced at her, and then shook his head.

“I don’t think it says anything,” he told her. “Not in the same way. Tom’s in it for Tom. I don’t know much about him, but I could tell that from the start. That’s why I told him no. If he’s hanging around 2-D, it’s because he thinks he can manipulate things in his favour. It doesn’t say anything about D.”

“But he has already received his favour,” Noodle reminded him. “What can be left for him but to weasel out of giving 2-D what is his?”

Russel focused on the road, his lips pressed tightly together.

“I… worry a little,” Noodle said. “How far, do you think, is he willing to go?”

“They can’t do anything to D,” Russel stated firmly. “I’ve been talking with some of the others and they’re pretty definite about their being repercussions for going back on a deal.”

“Is that only for taking direct action?” Noodle pressed. “Or are there repercussions for convincing others to take care of the matter for them?”

“I don’t know,” Russel admitted. “Where did you say everyone was when we left?”

“Addie is in the window in my room, as usual,” Noodle told him. “Heather was with her. The cats were napping because the sun is high. Andrew and Huey…”

“Were in my workshop,” Russel supplied, “but that’s a bit away from the rest of the living areas.”

“Harry is either out and about with Cortez or in Murdoc’s library,” Noodle supplied. “Murdoc had music on when we left, but he will be in and out and around the studio. He might even wander down out to join 2-D, who was watching movies. I did not see Tom, but I imagine he would have shown himself if I had tried to speak with 2-D.”

“Well, with Muds hanging around, I doubt anything will happen in the next little while,” Russel said. “We might as well finish what we set out to do. If nothing else, we need to pick up fish before we all wake up to a face full of cat ass. When we get back though, I think it will be time for another household meeting. And if anyone protests, I’ll drop kick him off the roof.”

“I think that sounds like a wonderful idea,” Noodle said. “Thank you.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Hey. Bitchface.”

Murdoc halted his raid on the refrigerator to consider whether the remark was aimed at him, and then decided it did not matter because he wanted to know the reason for it anyway. He cast a quick glance around the kitchen as he stepped back, and then upward as he closed the door, only just managing to maintain his composure as Tom loomed over him.

“What the fuck do _you_ want?” Murdoc addressed the muzzle only inches from his face.

“Down,” Tom told him.

“Well you’ve a piss-poor way of going about getting that, haven’t you?” Murdoc grinned. “Did 2-D put you up there?”

“No. He doesn’t want me up on things. Something about nefarious purposes.”

“That’s a bit more thought than 2-D usually has.”

“He didn’t think it. I told him,” Tom said.

“Well then, that’s on you isn’t it?”

Murdoc fished around in his back pocket for cigarettes, pulled one out and lit it.

“How’d you manage to get up there without him?”

“Life finds a way.”

Murdoc snorted.

“Mysterious little bugger, aren’t you? Well, that’s fine. I’ve put up a front myself. So you got yourself stuck up there and want me to get you down? What’s in it for me?”

“Advice,” Tom said.

“If I took your advice in one hand and a fistful of horseshit in the other, I could only make use of one and that’s the fertilizer.”

“Understood,” Tom said. “What did you have in mind?”

“You do riches, right?” Murdoc pressed.

“Power, wealth, and length of days,” Tom confirmed, “among other things. But those are the big three. Not that it matters. I’m already in a contract.”

“Bully for you, then,” Murdoc said and turned to leave.

“How much do you know about your books?”

Murdoc hesitated, blowing out a slow stream of smoke, and then turned to look at Tom, waiting for an explanation.

“Your little library,” Tom emphasized. “I got a look at a few of the titles. Collected them for the looks, did you?”

Murdoc said nothing. He _had_ picked the bulk of them up for the aesthetic. They had the sorts of titles and covers that looked good in publicity shots, which is to say they looked dangerous and deviant and all the things a proper bassist with a love of heavy metal ought to be. Some were whispered about as genuine, the real deal, and these he picked up out of genuine interest. He had even attempted to use some of them, possibly to good result although only time would tell.

“Some of them are good,” he challenged.

“Most of them are good,” Tom replied. “They’ve just lost a few things in translation. I could tell you which ones they are. I could maybe even properly translate a few pages. I doubt I could tell you everything that was lost, but I could point you in the right direction. How much research you wanted to put into them after that would be up to you. Bear in mind,” he added as Murdoc considered his words, “I don’t actually _need_ your help to get down from here. It would just be faster and more convenient to me.”

Murdoc hesitated, using an especially long pull on his cigarette to weigh the pros and cons of Tom’s suggestion. He had always wondered if some of his tomes were not more than they appeared to be, although he had never managed to suss out their secrets. A fast track to their knowledge would not be without its use.

On the other hand…

“I don’t trust you, mate,” Murdoc said.

“You don’t have to,” Tom pointed out. “What’s the worst that could happen if I’m lying? You waste a tiny amount of energy putting me on the floor?”

“And if the spells don’t work?”

“I never said they would,” Tom said. “I said I could tell you which ones were the badly translated genuine articles. How you go about finding the originals is your business.”

“Point,” Murdoc admitted. “I don’t need them anyway. I’ve already made a deal with the devil for fame and fortune.”

“Have you? Or did you just go on a bender and think you did?” Tom needled, causing Murdoc to wince inwardly. “I mean, I would think that selling your soul would get you faster service than… whatever the fuck’s going on here.”

“Shut your gob, you manky bastard,” Murdoc hissed, jabbing the cigarette in Tom’s direction to emphasize his point. “That’s my band you’re on about. A successful band. With international stardom.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Tom replied, recoiling only slightly from the glowing end of Murdoc’s cancer stick. “I haven’t been keeping up with Top of the Pops as a free-roaming entity. Not that it matters. Deal with whatever devils you like. I’m just offering information. Take it or leave it, but make it snappy. Doing it myself’s a bit of a process and I’d like to get started if you’re out.”

Murdoc was not one to debate a subject for long. He knew what he wanted and took steps to ensure he progressed in that direction. The question was whether he wanted information more than he wanted to inconvenience Tom. He was not convinced the information would be valuable, but he doubted it would be wrong. Tom, for all his considerable flaws tended to speak the unvarnished truth with brutal glee. Murdoc was quite certain he would get a pile of entirely accurate, and utterly useless, information. That alone made the thought of telling the little bastard to fuck clear off a pleasant one.

On the other hand, information was inherently valuable, even if it was not immediately useful. It was what one made of it.

Murdoc reached the end of his cigarette and stubbed the butt out against the counter before flicking it across the room to be lost in a sheltered corner until someone swept the floor and complained. Then he pulled out a second and lit it to disguise his careful deliberations.

“I think you’re full of malarky,” Murdoc said, breathing out a fresh stream of smoke, “but now you’ve got me curious. I’ll take you up on that offer just to see where it leads.”

“Good on you. I didn’t fancy the return trip,” Tom said as Murdoc jammed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and lifted his arms to gather up the strange little animal. He crouched to let Tom jump to the floor and shake himself off. “Fucking fantastic. Let’s go.”

“You’re fine on your own?” Murdoc asked. “You don’t need to be trailing Dents? I don’t want him stumbling in on our little get together. Not that I care whether he knows about it, mind, but if he’s there, he’ll ask questions. Continually and ad nauseum.”

“He’s watching movies,” Tom said trotting along as Murdoc fell in step beside him. “At least I think he is. He’s staring at the screen, but he doesn’t look all there.”

Murdoc chuckled. That was 2-D all over.

“Well, that’s all right then. As long as there won’t be lengthy breaks for explanations.” Murdoc graciously ashed his cigarette on the side of the hallway opposite Tom. “So what makes you think you’ll be able to understand my collection. Not all of them are English.”

“Fine. Neither am I.”

“Right. I’d forgotten,” Murdoc mused. “Well, forgotten that you don’t speak English. Or really speak at all. Although, if I’m hearing you ‘cause of 2-D, I’d have thought you’d have a proper accent. You’re practically American.”

“Blame Hollywood,” Tom said, trotting along. “You’ll hear what you expect. Maybe you watch too many movies.”

“Or 2-D does,” Murdoc said. “Plays ‘em loud enough that the neighbours’ll all be Yanks by now. So… you know many languages? You don’t seem a keener.”

Tom snorted.

“Don’t confuse me with Huey,” he said. “He learns languages because he’s a nerd. I know them because they’re foreign.”

Murdoc grinned. “Makes a difference, does it?”

“Yes,” Tom said, but did not elaborate.

That was fine by Murdoc. It was not his intention to strike up a friendship, only get something useful out of the exchange. Perhaps some insight, leading to the discovery of books more valuable than he had initially thought. Perhaps a better understanding and appreciation for texts he had purchased – or stolen, if he were being honest – purely for the aesthetic.

Perhaps the means to summon something that might cut him a deal as valuable as 2-D’s.

It need not be a big something. A little something would do. Something he could contact while stone cold sober… or at least very nearly so.

Arriving at the door to his secondary room, Murdoc stubbed out his cigarette on the door jamb and flicked the butt down the hall. Opening the door, he gestured for Tom to enter, and cast a glance around the place as he followed.

Finding no sign of Harry or Cortez – presumably, they had gone hunting – Murdoc took the precautionary step of barring the window through which the birds came and went. Cortez normally opened it by bracing on a perch mounted outside the studio, so there was no danger of his crashing into it, although he might be quite miffed and sulk for a time when he discovered he was left out in the cold.

Murdoc had no qualms about either bird hanging around under normal circumstances, but preferred to have them out of the way should he decide to attempt any interesting experiments. Accidents happened, after all, and he had a soft spot for Cortez with a smaller one for Harry by extension.

“Thoughts?” Murdoc prompted once the window was locked.

“Depends what you want out of this,” Tom told him. “I said I’d tell you which of the books looked like the real deal as opposed to varnished turds, but if you want to exchange that for a more in-depth look at a select number, I’m up for it. No charge for any books you choose that I can’t identify, of course.”

“There are a few I’ve always wondered about,” Murdoc admitted, running his finger along the spines and pulling out a few of his favourite volumes.

“Good, good,” Tom said, scanning the shelves as he paced along their base. “I saw a couple of others too, last time I was in here. This one,” he indicated, pawing at it, “and that one a couple of shelves up. Mossy green cover. Yeah, that one,” he said as Murdoc slid his hands over the tomes and pulled them out to add to the pile.

Arms full, Murdoc decided that the selection would do for a start and moved to place them on the table beside his reading chair before thinking better of it and stacking them on the floor. Tom gave this a brief nod of approval, tail twitching.

“Probably good enough,” he said.

“For a start,” Murdoc emphasized. He was not about to get short-changed simply for being short-limbed.

“Well, that’ll depend on how much work goes into this pile,” Tom said. “If I can’t help you with any of them, well, that’s cause for more, certainly. But if you want me to go in-depth, that’s something else entirely. I think you’ll be all right though. A smaller pile is narratively expedient.”

“Narratively expedient?” Murdoc said, taking out a fresh cigarette and lighting it.

“The writer doesn’t have all day,” Tom clarified.

“The translator, you mean,” Murdoc corrected.

“Yeah, sure. That too. Not that I’m actually translating.”

“No, of course not,” Murdoc said as Tom sat and grinned at him. It was a slightly disconcerting and far more grin-like grin than the average canine could manage.

Murdoc decided a tumbler of whiskey would go very well with his cigarette.

“Oh, nice. Can I have some?” Tom said as Murdoc poured himself a measure.

“No,” Murdoc said.

“Fine. Fuck you, then,” Tom replied and batted the first book away. “That one’s trash. Looks pretty, but it’s basically a fulfilment fantasy.”

He pawed through another clumsily until Murdoc eased himself down on the floor and flipped through it for him, keeping a slow, regular pace.

“This one’s not bad. Byzantine. Christian undertones,” Tom said. “Not the most powerful force on the block, distilled as it is, but a nice crossover with whatever you’re rocking at the moment. The original text will be hard to get, but you can probably get chunks of it here and there from dedicated historians. Now, that one’s Babylonian…”

Tom jabbed a paw in the direction of a cheaply bound book that looked as though it were mainly composed of photocopies. However, the photocopies appeared to be of photos and charcoal rubbings of actual monuments, and this had caught Murdoc’s eye. He silently turned pages as Tom scanned them, nodding appreciatively.

“Yeah, most of this is stuff like prayers, dedications, and inscriptions. The collector didn’t discriminate. A few spells in here though. Protection, mostly. If you’ve got a way to mark the pages, I’ll point them out. Could probably even translate them if that’s what gets your motor running although, like I said, mostly protection.”

“I’ll remember,” Murdoc said, knowing he probably wouldn’t and not really caring about protection, although he often found he possessed perfect recall when the situation became life or death. “A fan of Babylonians, are you?”

“I’ve banged Babylonians, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Tom said, “although I tend to prefer it closer to home. Phonecians, Canaanites… that sort of thing. Speaking of which, grab that blue book over there.”

“_Daemonology_,” Murdoc said, reading the cover.

“Yeah, that’s what people were calling any random supernatural entity or ‘pagan’ god at one point,” Tom told him. “Turn the pages.”

Murdoc did so, his reasons for picking up the book coming back to him as he scanned the intricate artwork. The interpretations were obviously fanciful and modern, but finely done and they held a certain charm, particularly for someone interested in scaring the bollocks off casual acquaintances. The chicken scratch quality of the writing gave the tome a drippy, horror-movie feel and put him off reading the actual content, but it enhanced the otherworldly appearance of the work. Even if Tom’s interest had not suggested some greater value, Murdoc would have thanked him for helping him rediscover such an aesthetically pleasing possession.

“Stop,” Tom ordered and Murdoc did so, looking over the entry.

“The Battle Virgin,” Murdoc read, trying to reconcile the title with the lurid, blood-soaked image.

“Think old-timey virgin,” Tom told him. “Like… not married. Ever. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t get around. Granted, she comes with more curses than the average monthly, but she doesn’t mind taking it up the ass. Or you could just get pegged. You know, switch it up. She’s into decapitation and threatened to cut my dick off no less than five times,” he added before Murdoc could ask how he might have come by such intimate knowledge. “You don’t get dates like that anymore.”

“Her majesty frowns upon Saturday night beheadings,” Murdoc informed him. “What would such a lovely vision of death and womanhood be called upon to provide?”

“Mainly peace, believe it or not.”

“Bollocks!”

“It gets really peaceful when all your enemies are beheaded,” Tom pointed out. “Also when none of your friends are.”

“A very good point,” Murdoc said, “and a tempting proposition. I can think of a few people I would like beheaded, but that sort of thing draws attention.”

“Very true,” Tom commiserated. “It’s a pretty good book though. Scout through it and if there’s anyone I know, I can probably tell you even more about them than you’d get tracking down the source.”

Murdoc did so, murmuring titles and function under his breath. The book made everything sound like one of the ridiculous fantasy games that came and went in his peripheral vision, no doubt a result of the poor translation and artist’s obvious fetishes. Even so, the simplified descriptions left no doubt as to what he would be facing if and when he decided to summon any of them.

“This one offers great beauty,” Murdoc joked. “Definitely not on the wish list.”

“You couldn’t even afford a downpayment on the tribute for that kind of miracle,” Tom returned, but only grinned when Murdoc cast him a nasty look.

“You’ll want to watch your mouth or you’ll catch a fist like 2-D,” Murdoc muttered.

From the corner of his eye, Murdoc thought he saw Tom bristle at that, but he only sat calmly, still grinning when Murdoc turned to look at him.

“You’ve got genies in here,” Murdoc said, turning back to the book.

“Well, there were genies around, but those are actually djinn,” Tom told him, scanning the page. “The transcriber’s mixed them up a little. Djinn have particular spheres of influence, but don’t grand wishes.”

“Leviathan?”

“I had a girlfriend that kicked its ass,” Tom said, flopping down and affecting an air of superiority. “You don’t get dates like that anymore either.”

“I’ve got to tell you, I’m not sure I want one,” Murdoc confided.

“Look me in the face,” Tom said, staring him down, “and tell me a woman who can bench press a sea serpent doesn’t turn you on.”

Murdoc considered this and nodded reluctantly.

“That’s fair,” he said. “Is she listed?”

“She might have been once,” Tom mused. “If so, she probably beat the editor senseless until it was removed.”

“This one says ‘River Nymph’ and promises prosperity,” Murdoc chuckled, tilting the book so Tom could see. “Sounds like a right bit of fun.”

“I don’t know what you have in mind, but that ‘river nymph’ is a man,” Tom informed him.

This surprised Murdoc somewhat, but he recovered quickly.

“Do you think that matters for prosperity? You think I can’t manage some meat and veg for a lifetime of prosperity?”

“My mistake,” Tom said. “Although that ‘prosperity’ is more like ‘fertility’. Whoever put this book together really butchered that entry.”

“No need for that then,” Murdoc sniffed. “My virility is the stuff of legend.” He flipped a few pages. “What about ‘domination’?”

He tilted the book so that Tom could take a glance at the entry, recoiling slightly when he did so.

“Terror wolf,” Tom said, reading the title with some distaste.

“Someone you know?”

“We’ve met. A bit of a temper, that one. Domination is accurate enough.”

“What kind of domination?” Murdoc pressed.

Tom snorted. “Whatever you’ve got, I guess. Dominate your partner, your enemies, the charts, the stock market, your bad habits… You’d probably have to summon it and have a chat.”

Tom’s obvious dislike fed Murdoc’s curiosity.

“You seem to think it’s a bad idea,” Murdoc said, taking pleasure in the thought of summoning the thing simply to annoy 2-D’s little pet.

“Look,” Tom told him, tail twitching. “I know you’re jealous that 2-D summoned a bunch of gods and has gifts waiting in return, but this isn’t the same situation. That book is not a magic scroll. More importantly, it’s not a magic scroll of creation that will give you control over anything you call up and chances are they won’t be happy about it. In fact, you’ll have to offer some sort of tribute just to get them to show up and there’s no telling what kind of deal they’ll demand if you do.”

Alarm bells sounded somewhere in the back of Murdoc’s mind, but he was accustomed to the sound. For him, it usually meant a foray into an activity that might be dangerous, but also offered huge benefits if pulled off correctly.

Tom’s discomfort was merely a bonus.

Murdoc grinned.

“What do I need to do?”

Preparations went about as smoothly as Murdoc could hope. Guided by Tom, he chalked the requisite circle out on the floor, bordered by strange glyphs at the four greater cardinal points and smaller markings at the four lesser points. A string of even smaller, but less elaborate glyphs formed the outline. He threw together some salt water and stripped off his shirt, wiping himself down all over with the “purifying” liquid. He even kicked off his boots, but balked at ditching his jeans or shaving.

“I’m not doing this in the all together for your amusement,” Murdoc said.

Tom sniffed a canine sniff of dismissal. “You asked. I’m just telling you. Pure fabrics only.”

“This is the good stuff,” Murdoc informed him, giving his waistband a tug. “None of those mixed blends.”

“When did you last wash them?” Tom said. “Purity is very important. That’s why you’re suppose to remove your body hair. Purity prevents corruption.”

“Well your mate’s in for a surprise then, isn’t he?” Murdoc grinned. “I’ve been corrupt for ages.”

“It’s your funeral,” Tom said. “You asked me to tell you what this ritual is, but that’s all you’re getting. This one pays for all, and I’m hiding under the chair when you do it.”

“What’s the matter? You shag his bird?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Tom admitted. “Many times. And I’m not exactly in a body to defend myself. Do you have a knife?”

Murdoc did have a knife, several in fact, although most of the were in the winnebago. Tom scoffed at the small, silver ritual knife that remained and pressed him for something better.

“You need at least a butcher’s knife,” Tom told him. “I mean, you won’t do that much with it, but it’s the look of the thing. You’re calling a fierce entity. You don’t want to look under endowed.”

“Point taken,” Murdoc said.

“Russel has a great blade for his taxidermy work. I caught a look at it. You need something at least that good.”

Murdoc left the room and headed for the kitchen, before changing his mind and veering toward Russel’s workshop. The route to the workshop would not cross 2-D’s path or draw his attention. He half-expected to encounter the dog and baboon that had taken a shine to Russel, but they were nowhere to be found. Either Andrew and Huey had taken a lunch break or were doing their damned jobs and visiting with 2-D.

The details mattered little to Murdoc. He grabbed the knife and wiped it down with some of the disinfectant kept nearby.

“Looks good,” Tom told him once he had returned. “Put it in the middle of the circle as an offering.”

“What’s next, then,” Murdoc said, placing the knife and glancing at the book.

“Just the incantation,” Tom told him. “It comes with a gesture sequence.”

They went over the gestures once or twice, simple things that did not require much thought, and then Murdoc turned his back to the book so as not to be distracted by its incorrect English text. He forced the tension from his body, and closed his eyes.

The incantation was simple enough, not too long or too difficult to pronounce, although Murdoc would not have known the words without Tom feeding them to him from under the chair. He called, he made promises when prompted – of a small offering to start, in exchange for a tiny boon – with the incentive of providing more if the partnership proved mutually beneficial. He asked for a human form to speak to and stipulated that English must be spoken. He did all these things, but when he opened his eyes, he found no one.

“Your spell’s buggered,” Murdoc said, bending down to glance under the chair.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tom replied from behind him. “I think it worked just fine.”

Murdoc had grown so accustomed to hearing a voice overlay in his mind that he was already turning around to utter a snarky reply when it dawned on him that he had heard Tom’s voice with his ears.

Tom loomed over him, lips peeled back in a feral grin.

“_I_,” he said, “am the ‘Terror Wolf’.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Warning for threat and possibility of suicide.

Murdoc had once heard the term “uncanny valley”, but never paid it much mind. He had seen enough weird things in his lifetime, both sober and under the influence of various narcotics, to no longer be shocked, alarmed, or in any way discomfited by the unusual. Nevertheless, the term came rushing back to him in the split second after his seeing Tom and before Tom’s grabbing his arm, spinning him around, and wrenching said arm so high up on his back that Murdoc fell to his knees in pain.

“Still an ugly blighter, aren’t ya?” he managed to spit through clenched teeth.

A lie, but a small one.

There was nothing especially ugly about Tom. There was simply nothing entirely _human_ about Tom. From skin so colourless it tore a hole in the universe to the long coils of hair cascading blood-red over Murdoc’s shoulder as Tom leaned into him, nothing like Tom should have ever existed. And yet, it did, and felt very much at home.

“That won’t be your concern much longer,” Tom told him, an insidious whisper unlike his usual indignant yowling. 

“You know,” Murdoc panted, squirming a little, not quite daring to attack with his free hand in case it made his problems worse, “if I just ‘summoned’ you, you owe me a favour.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Tom told him. “But as I mentioned, I’m already under contract. You’ll have to get in line. I’ll be free to help you, as soon as I take care of the biggest pain in 2-D’s ass. That would be _you_,” Tom clarified, his unseen smile raining acid upon Murdoc’s back, “so that might be a bit of a deal breaker.”

“Wouldn’t that be against the ‘law of the universe’ or whatever you call it?” Murdoc argued as the weight at his back shifted. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tom reaching for the knife in the middle of the circle. “Bugger the balance of things?”

“I have a more immediate service,” Tom informed him, his voice distant and distracted. “There are loopholes for everything.”

Tom’s hand hovered near the knife, flexing, but never quite grasping the handle.

“What’s the matter? Can’t you pick it up?” Murdoc said, unable to prevent a sudden rush of glee from seeping into his voice as he realized what must be at play. “Did 2-D tell you ‘no’?”

“It was an offering…”

“Oh, an _offering_,” Murdoc jeered as Tom leaned into him. “I might have used it to call you into something more comfortable, sweetheart, but I didn’t make the outfit. I guess there are no loopholes to the Word of God.”

Murdoc felt the pressure on his arm release a moment before a kick in the rear sent him sprawling to the floor. Tom’s heel, planted firmly between his shoulder blades, kept him there.

“I don’t _need_ a knife to kill you,” Tom snarled. “I don’t have that much respect for you anyway. Everyone else, well… They like everything nice and proper. But I don’t _need_ a knife to rip your limbs clear off your body.”

Murdoc believed him. Cold certainty infused every word and Murdoc had no doubt that Tom could rip flesh apart like paper.

But Murdoc had not made it this far by bowing to intimidation.

Breathlessly, he chuckled.

“You… You really have a thing for limbs, don’t you?”

“We all have our talents,” Tom replied coldly, shifting more weight onto Murdoc’s back.

“So go ahead,” Murdoc told him. “What’s stopping you?”

Seconds ticked by as the air coalesced around them, heavy and charged as though heralding a storm.

“You can’t, can you?” Murdoc concluded. “You _can_, but you can’t. It won’t solve your problem because it’s not what 2-D wants and you know it.”

Another silence, deep and oppressive, and the weight suddenly vanished from Murdoc’s back.

Murdoc struggled to stand, but then dropped back to the floor, hands pressed to his ears, as the thickened air split with a rolling, roaring shriek of sheer rage that sent terror racing up his spine. A spattering of thumps followed as a hail of books rained down from the closest shelf, destruction in the face of utter frustration.

“Throw a wobbly if you want to,” Murdoc said, forcing a sneer as he frantically noted the door on the far side of the room. “It won’t make a lick of difference. No shame in shooting yourself in the foot, mate. I’ve done it my—“

Murdoc grunted, pain blooming in his shoulder as Tom grabbed his arm, hauled him to his feet, and threw him up against a second shelf.

“_I_ do not _need_ to _obey_!” Tom snarled.

Another truth.

Murdoc shivered from the rush of fear-fuelled adrenaline, but held his ground. He had never begged for mercy in his life and was not about to start now.

“No,” he agreed, “but you will.”

Murdoc counted down the moments as Tom loomed over him, huffing in deep, rage-filled breaths, until the terrible silence prompted Murdoc to fill it.

“It’s hard, isn’t it? Being believed in?” he said, dropping his voice down low. “He expects so much. I have an advantage, of course. He didn’t make the skin I wear. There’s no cost in my ignoring him. But even so…”

“Shut-up!” Tom roared, yanking Murdoc forward and swinging him back against the shelf.

The impact stunned Murdoc enough that he was not able to dodge when Tom released his arm and clamped a hand around his throat. He gagged, pressed roughly against the wall of books, certain that one hand was all Tom needed to snuff out his life.

He nearly missed the soft click of the doorknob under the rushing of blood in his ears.

He had not locked the door. Why would he? His only concern was for Cortez and his magnetic window. Anyone who could turn a knob was out of the house or zombified in front of the television. There seemed no need to barricade himself inside the room. No need, until the violence began. The shrieking rage that rattled windows all the way down to the cellar.

“I’m not the dumbest person on the planet,” 2-D said, standing forlornly in the open door. “I just din’t want you to be awful.”

“You should go,” Tom said, his attention rolling toward 2-D. “I’ll take care of this.”

“I din’t ask you to take care of anything,” 2-D said.

“He hurts you,” Tom pointed out. “He is your enemy. I can protect you.”

“Yeah,” 2-D admitted. “Prob’ly. But I dun want you to protect me.”

Murdoc struggled for breath as the seconds passed by.

2-D’s brow furrowed in annoyance.

“Let Murdoc go,” he ordered quietly.

Tom’s fingers twitched once against Murdoc’s throat, and then sprung open. Murdoc stumbled out of reach, massaging his neck.

“Good timing,” he croaked, but his words stumbled to a halt as 2-D pulled something from his back pocket.

“Murdoc hurts people sometimes,” 2-D admitted. “An’ sometimes I think I know why. I’s not right, but it happens. I hurt people too, though. Even when I dun mean it. Even when I only wanted to help.”

Alarm bells went off in Murdoc’s head, and he thought he saw the same in Tom’s eyes, widening slightly with sudden realization.

As if to confirm their suspicions, 2-D raised the smooth and silvered handle he had pulled from his pocket and pressed one end against his throat.

“I din’t mean to bring ever’one here,” he said. “And I din’t mean to make you obey. You’re all sad an’ I dun know what to do. I tried and tried to think of somethin’ else to want, but I liked you all too much. I liked talking with ever’one and getting ever’one pretty things, even when they stopped liking me. An’ I liked watching films with you, even when you were mean. But if bein’ here’s so bad that you want to hurt others, then… Well… Death solves a lot of problems. That’s what you said.”

He would do it, Murdoc knew. Although he joked that 2-D’s brain was little more than a blank sheet of paper, it was one that overflowed with possibility, streams of creativity and rivers of dreams that ran unceasing into bottomless pools. Once 2-D had a notion, he would run with it until he sank or swam without a single concern for his own safety, especially if that notion pertained to one he considered a friend.

It was hard, being believed in. Murdoc was fortunate, he knew. He could afford to ignore 2-D. He could ignore the whispers that spoke of disappointment and that look of hurt betrayal. He could ignore bruises after the fact and claim them as something a man should be proud of. He could ignore the worms of guilt wriggling deep in his soul, trying to unearth a conscience he had worked hard to bury.

It was hard, being believed in. To want to be better, in spite of yourself. To want that want, no matter how hard you tried to reject it.

Murdoc opened his mouth to protest, his throat raw, but Tom spoke first.

“If you do this, I will owe him,” Tom challenged. “Do you trust him enough to leave him with that?”

You shouldn’t, Murdoc thought as 2-D’s attention shifted over to him.

“Murdoc only wants me for the band,” 2-D said as their gaze connected, the red-black of his eyes almost unreadable. “He wants the band for fame an’ fortune. He says he made a deal for fame. You can give him fortune. He dun need _me_ anymore.”

And then he popped the trigger on the bottom of the knife.


	14. Epilogue

“I still cannot believe you missed.”

“I din’t,” 2-D said cheerfully.

“Well, you hurt yourself,” Noodle admitted, “but you hit nothing vital. Every time I check the wound, I see how close you came.”

“Very close,” 2-D agreed, resigned.

“You cut the underside of your jaw. There will barely even be a scar.” Noodle’s voice dropped and softened. “That was a very stupid thing to do, Toochi.”

“Yeah, if you hadn’t used the wrong knife, you’d have sliced an artery,” Russel added from where he sat at the table, reading a paper.

2-D scrunched his nose up in annoyance and tried to glare at Russel, eliciting a cluck of disapproval from Noodle, who caught his jaw and turned it back to where she could examine and disinfect the cut.

“I din’t use the wrong knife,” 2-D complained. “I know what my knives are! Din’t miss neither.”

“Mmhmm,” Noodle soothed. “Well, I think we can leave the bandage off now. The wound looks healed enough to get some air. A little longer and you will never know it was there.”

“You’d never know from the blood I had to mop off the floor.”

“You have no say!” Noodle scolded, turning on Murdoc. “This is your fault. Yours and that Tom’s. You are each as bad as the other!”

“Perhaps,” Murdoc replied, betraying nothing. “It seems to have worked out well enough in the end.”

“Still no follow-up about the break-in at the museum,” Russel offered, checking the headlines. “They must have given up looking for the intruders, since nothing _appears_ to have been taken.”

“Well, it is unlikely that anyone will notice if one scroll that is difficult to read has been replaced with another that is difficult to read,” Noodle reasoned. “Especially if they are both genuine scrolls.”

“I still can’t get how clean it was,” Russel said, folding the paper and tossing it on the table. “Tom struck me as a smash-n-grab kinda guy.”

“I think it was very clever,” 2-D said, prodding at the healing cut on his jaw. “I’s not nice to make a mess in public places where families go.”

“And you expressed that thought out loud, did you?” Russel grinned.

“I might have,” 2-D admitted as Noodle brushed his hands away from his face.

“No scratching!” she admonished as he sulked at her. “How can it heal if you pick at it?”

“Huey’s got it back now, though, so that’s all right,” 2-D said, trying to sit on his hands.

“Seems odd to bring it back here first.”

“Really, Russ?” Murdoc said, taking a swig of beer. “Who else would you trust to wish you nothing but the best for you?”

“Noodle, maybe?” Russel snarked.

“No,” Noodle admitted, eyes downcast. “I would wish for peacefulness. Although I feel strongly about it, I do not feel that would suit everyone. Honestly, I am surprised it worked.”

“I guess being willing to give up your life to break a contract is as good as dying,” Russel said, ignoring 2-D’s snort of derision and whine of discontent as Noodle smacked his roaming fingers once again. “I’m a bit surprised they took up the offer to come back though.”

“Well, they wanted to see the world in human form,” Noodle said, “and it was a much softer deal this time.”

“I got an e-mail from Addie an’ Betty,” 2-D said. “They went to France an’ sent pictures of all kinds of places they’ve seen.”

“Have you heard from anyone else?” Noodle said, sighing and preparing a fresh bandage as she shooed 2-D’s hands away from his wound.

“Sometimes they send messages,” 2-D said as Noodle scolded him and fixed the bandage in place. “But Addie and Betty always send the most pictures ‘cause they’re happy they could go together. I thought I was gettin’ air!”

“If you insist on picking at it, it will have to be covered up,” Noodle told him. “Huey stayed in London, did he not?”

“Yeah,” Russel interjected. “He’s checking out the libraries. And Andrew’s on the world’s most morbid tour of cemeteries and burial practises. He’s been sending me good taxidermy information though.”

And so it was for everyone: Heather, Sasha, Muffy, Bess, and a host of others, all carefully summoned and sent out into the world with love and faith.

“I haven’t heard from Tom since he went to see Australia,” 2-D said.

“That might be best,” Noodle told him, patting 2-D’s back in consolation. “I think, perhaps, he needed some time on his own.”

“He’s in for a surprise then,” Murdoc said. “Harry buggered off after him. ‘To keep him out of trouble’, he says, but never thinks about _my_ trouble. Cortez and I are back to charades.”

“A’s very nice of Harry, but I dun think Tom’ll be much trouble,” 2-D said.

“You sure about that?” Russel said. “He’s the one that kicked this whole thing off.”

“I believe in him,” 2-D replied haughtily.

“I am simply happy you did not hurt yourself,” Noodle said, packing the bandages up and offering a tentative hug that 2-D gladly accepted. “We should do something quiet today.”

“We could order some pizzas and _all_ watch a movie,” Russel said, kicking Murdoc under the table before he could protest. “Anyone have anything in mind?”

“Well, I like horror, but I dun mind watchin’ something else,” 2-D said.

“Tired of mummies, are you?” Russel said.

“Yeah,” 2-D admitted, scratching at his bandage. “They start an almighty row about ever’thing.”


End file.
